Cattle-Ranch to College: The True Tales of a Boy's Adventures in the Far West
by Russell Doubleday · English · Gutenberg #39850 · 427,108 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Cattle-Ranch to College: The True Tales of a Boy's Adventures in the Far West
Author: Russell Doubleday
Illustrator: Janet MacDonald
Ernest Thompson Seton
Release date: May 29, 2012 [eBook #39850]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39850
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CATTLE-RANCH TO COLLEGE: THE TRUE TALES OF A BOY'S ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST ***
Produced by David Edwards, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive.)
CATTLE RANCH TO COLLEGE.
[Illustration: A XXX BUNCH. (_Page 290._)]
CATTLE-RANCH TO COLLEGE
THE TRUE TALE OF A BOY'S ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST
BY
RUSSELL DOUBLEDAY
"A GUNNER ABOARD THE YANKEE"
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE Co
MDCCCXCIX
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY
DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CO
TO MY MOTHER,
KINDLY CRITIC, COUNSELLOR, AND FRIEND,
THIS BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
PREFACE.
This is a true tale of a boy's life in the West twenty-five years ago.
It is an account of his amusements, his trials, his work, his play. The
incidents described actually happened and are described substantially as
"the boy" related them to the writer.
The "wild and woolly" West is fast vanishing, and a great deal of the
adventurous life is going with it. Buffalo hunts are things of the past;
encounters with Indians that were experienced in the time of John
Worth's boyhood are now happily very rare; railroads have penetrated the
cattle country, and vast herds of cattle are no longer driven long
distances to the shipping point, so that the consequent danger,
hardship, and excitement are largely done away with.
In places the great prairies have been fenced, in others grain grows
where heretofore only buffalo, cattle, and horses ranged, and much of
the free, wild life of the cowboy, the ranchman, and the miner is gone
for all time.
It is hoped that this book will be of interest, not because of its
novelty but of its truthfulness. The author feels that the story of a
boy who has passed through the stern training of a frontier life to an
honorable place in an Eastern university will be acceptable to boys
young and old.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN INDIAN ATTACK 1
II. THE YOUNG BRAVE'S DARING 20
III. A NARROW ESCAPE 36
IV. HITTING THE TRAIL 54
V. IN A MINING CAMP 73
VI. A SNOWSHOE RACE 91
VII. A BUFFALO HUNT 106
VIII. A CLOSE FINISH 122
IX. A "BAD MAN'S" END 140
X. BATTLE ROYAL 157
XI. A TRYING JOURNEY 177
XII. A CHANGE OF SCENE 195
XIII. HERDING HORSES AND PANNING GOLD 214
XIV. A MIGRATION 229
XV. "RANGE-RIDING" 245
XVI. A BRONCHO BUSTER 261
XVII. A COW-PUNCHER IN EARNEST 273
XVIII. A MIDNIGHT STAMPEDE 289
XIX. AN AWAKENING 304
XX. A TRANSFORMATION 317
XXI. TWELVE HUNDRED MILES AWHEEL TO COLLEGE 331
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
A XXX BUNCH _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
MOUNTING A BUCKING BRONCHO 14
GLANCING OVER SAW AN INDIAN VILLAGE 32
CUSTER'S COMMAND 50
THE TAIL OF THE COOK'S WAGON WAS LET DOWN 62
THE STOCK OF THE RIFLE RESTED CLOSELY AGAINST HIS CHEEK 86
BEN WENT OVER TO WHERE THE GAME LAY 86
ROPING AN UNBROKEN HORSE 98
"CROW HAT'S FACING THIS WAY" 104
THE INDIAN CAMP 104
THE BIGGEST GAME THE COUNTRY AFFORDED 118
A SQUAW ... JUST SAW SOME BUFFALO 118
A SHEPHERD ... ALONE WITH HIS FLOCK 136
A DIFFICULT TASK IF THERE ARE MANY LAMBS IN THE FLOCK 146
MR. WORTH HAD BUILT FOR HIMSELF A NEW HOUSE 158
THE SHEEP RANCH HOUSE 158
HE ... BUCKS, PITCHES, KICKS 170
CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER 190
THE MEN BROKE UP INTO LITTLE GROUPS 210
A ROPE CORRAL WAS DRAWN ABOUT THE SADDLE BAND 220
EACH MAN TOOK HIS ROPE AND FLUNG IT OVER THE HORSE HE WANTED 236
A LITTLE BOX OF A CABIN IT WAS 248
THE SNUBBING POST HOLDS HIM FAST 264
JERRY TAKES IN THE SLACK 264
JOHN KNOTS THE ROPE LOOSELY ROUND HIS NECK 264
ROPED 278
THROWN 278
WHOSE IS IT? A QUESTION OF OWNERSHIP 278
DRAGGED IT UP TO THE FIRE 290
... WHILE THE IRON WAS APPLIED 290
HERDS WERE POURING IN FROM EVERY DIRECTION 308
THE DRIVE ... FORDING A STREAM 320
THE SUN RIVER RANCH HOUSE 334
* * * * *
MARGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY JANET MAC DONALD.
The drawings of beaver, etc., on pages 75, 84, and 90, by Ernest Seton
Thompson are reproduced through the courtesy of _Recreation_.
CATTLE RANCH TO COLLEGE.
CHAPTER I.
AN INDIAN ATTACK.
A solitary horseman rode into the little frontier town of Bismarck,
shortly after dark one evening, about twenty-five years ago. Horse and
rider passed up the single unpaved street; in the darkness no one
noticed the fagged condition of the animal, nor the excitement of the
rider, betokened by the continued urging of his weary pony.
The town was unusually full of the nomadic people who made up its
population, cow-punchers, saloon keepers, gamblers, freighters, and
outlaws. The evening quiet was constantly broken by the sounds of
revelry, and the report of a pistol occasionally punctuated the general
noise as some hilarious cowboy playfully shot at the lights.
In the dim ray cast across the street through the small windows of the
saloons and dance halls, no one saw the horseman ride up the street to
"Black Jack's," one of the most conspicuous saloons; here he stiffly
dismounted and tied his pony to the pole where stood a row of other
horses. After glancing around to see that all was secure, he entered. He
was hailed with a chorus of shouted greetings and questions.
"Hello, Harry! what's the matter?"
"Why, there's Harry Hodson! What drove you down the trail to-night?"
"Are you dry, old man? Come and drive a nail with me."
These and many more questions poured in on him so thick and fast that no
chance, for some time, was given him to speak.
As the crowd drew around the newcomer, who was a sober, steady cattleman
from twenty-five miles up the river, they noticed that there was
something out of the ordinary in his manner. Even the fact of his
appearance at that place and hour was unusual.
"No, boys," he said, in answer to the many invitations to drink. "I
think we'll all need clear heads before daylight."
"Why, what's the trouble?" chorused the crowd.
"The fact is," continued Hodson, hurriedly, "I _cached_ my cattle and
then came down to tell you that a big bunch of Indians crossed the river
above my place this afternoon, and they looked as if they were on the
war path."
All were attentive now, and even the most reckless of these wild men,
living continually in the midst of dangers, wore grave faces.
"I didn't stop to investigate. I wasn't taking any chances, you see," he
went on. "So I ran my cattle over onto Woody Island and then started
down the trail, giving the word to the fellows along the road. Hostiles
have been pretty thick across the river lately, and I've had to watch
out."
By this time all hands were thoroughly interested. As Hodson went on
with his tale, the men drew nearer to him, their faces showing how
keenly they realized what his news might mean to all.
Questions followed thick and fast.
"How many were there? Where did they cross?" asked one.
"How many horses? Did they have any squaws with them?"
Without giving Hodson a chance to answer, they all began to talk in an
excited babel of voices, advancing opinions and theories as to what had
taken place. One big fellow, in a red flannel shirt, asserted that they
must have crossed the river at Elbow Island; another contradicted this
statement and said that the stream was too wide at this point and that
they crossed in "bull boats," as the rude craft made of buffalo or cow
hides stretched over strong light frames of willow were called.
Hodson stood apart while this discussion was going on, with the bored
air of one who was fully acquainted with the facts and could end the
unnecessary talk in a moment if he was allowed an opportunity.
"Big Bill" Smith, one of the older men, took in the situation. "Dry up,"
said he; "let Harry talk, will you? He's the only one who knows
anything."
"Well," said Harry, as the crowd once more turned to him, "there isn't
much talking to do, but there's plenty of hustling ahead for us. About
two hundred Indians crossed the river up at Sioux Ford. They were
travelling pretty light, and I guess they are looking for beef or
anything else they can lay their hands on; probably they think they can
scare us off with a few shots and then run the stock off. They had a
lot of horses--not enough to go around--but a lot. We've got to get
ready for them on the jump, for if they're coming they'll be here before
daylight, and the stock and wagons will have to be got in right away."
"Somebody go for Jim Mackenzie," said Big Bill.
As one of the men started for the door to carry out this order, a tall,
commanding figure, grizzled and somewhat bent, but more from hardship
than from age, entered the room. He was recognized at once as the
sheriff: the central figure when trouble was brewing, but a retiring,
inconspicuous citizen when all was peaceful.
When action was required he was in his element. A man to depend on in
time of trouble, one to command in an emergency. It was very noticeable
that these rough cattlemen, accustomed to depend upon themselves, who
when off duty acknowledged no law except their own wishes, instinctively
looked for a leader when confronted with this common danger. No one
thought for an instant of questioning his orders, but obeyed with
military precision. For the time, his word was law.
"Harry," said the sheriff, turning to the bringer of these bad tidings,
after the above facts had been told him, "you put your saddle on my bay
and take a couple of men with you back on the trail. Bring back Jim
White and his outfit of wagons and stock; he's camped down on Hay Creek.
There are some smaller outfits on the Black Hills road; better help them
get in. You'll want to hustle," he added, as Hodson and his two helpers
went out.
"Smith," continued the sheriff, issuing orders as fast as a pony could
trot, "take a couple of men and get in the circle bar [symbol: large
circle with bar under it] stock, there's only a night-herder with
them. The rest of you who have wagons and stock out, bring them in
yourselves. All you loose men," he added, as he noticed that several men
still lingered in the hot, close, smoke-filled room, "get your guns,
saddle up, and come to my shack."
The sheriff had been in the place but five minutes, but now fat Sam
Whitney, a frequenter of the place, Black Jack, the saloon keeper, and a
couple of soldiers from the fort across the river, were all that
remained with him.
The men outside could be heard saddling up, struggling with their
refractory horses, and calling out to each other; from time to time the
rapidly diminishing sound of galloping hoofs came to the ears of the
silent men who for the moment remained motionless.
The sheriff was planning his defence against the expected Indian attack,
and the men who were with him, without a word, waited for the
announcement of his next move. It was Jim Mackenzie, and they put
themselves in his hands with blind confidence.
Bismarck was a frontier town in the full sense of the word. A collection
of rude houses, more or less strongly built of logs and dried mud,
straggled along the single street. Placed at the intersection of the
expected railroad and the Missouri River, a town of considerable size
was mapped and many streets with high-sounding names were projected. But
only Main Street was actually laid out. The houses, which their
inhabitants called shacks, were built on the north side of the street
facing the south, in obedience to the natural law of cold climates, so
Bismarck boasted really of but half a street, and that a short one.
Fort Abraham Lincoln, situated directly across the river, was supposed
to afford protection to the settlers from the Indian marauders, but the
hardy, self-reliant frontiersmen were generally able to take care of
themselves. Not many of the inhabitants stayed the year round. The few
who did remain through all seasons--the saloon keepers, horseshoers,
stable keepers, and the three families--dwelt in the more pretentious
houses. The other residences were mere temporary shelters, which their
owners would not have considered worth fitting up had they been able to
do so.
Around the outskirts of the town were always a number of freight
outfits, and this night was no exception to the general rule. The
cumbrous wagons were drawn in a circle, harnesses lying in a seemingly
hopeless tangle on the wagon tongues, and the tents were pitched against
their sides or canvas lean-to's were rigged up. A number of greasy men
lounged around the campfires, some sleeping, some re-braiding whips,
some mending harness or chopping out new brake blocks. The work stock
were grazing at a little distance where the grass was good, guarded by
an armed herder.
To these freighters' camps came the sheriff himself to warn them of the
impending danger. Immediately all was activity. The work stock were
brought, and, in a trice, harnessed to the heavy wagons. The mules were
urged forward with shouts and cracking of whips, and soon the whole
outfit was on its way to form a cordon around the town, or, at least, on
the side that was most likely to be attacked.
Mackenzie rode with the wagon-train for a short distance, then branched
off after giving some final orders, or rather suggestions, for any
emergency that might arise.
"So long," he said.
"So long," said the driver of the leading team. (Whether a man was
leaving for a trip across the street or across the continent, the
parting words were, invariably, "So long.")
Mackenzie went on his way, skirting the town, keeping his eyes and ears
wide open. There was nothing within hearing to indicate that the
settlement was in danger of attack from the dreaded Indian. The
teamsters could still be heard shouting to their mules, and an
occasional creaking squeak from the wagons broke the stillness. The
sheriff listened in vain for more ominous sounds.
"The reds are still pretty far off, or they are keeping mighty dark," he
said to himself, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped towards one
of the better-looking houses that stood on a little rise some distance
from the Main Street settlement. Messengers had been sent in every
direction, to warn sleeping citizens, and all had been arranged for
except this household, one of the three families of the town.
Mackenzie rode up to the door and, without dismounting, knocked.
In an instant there was a sound of bustling, for the Westerner sleeps
with one eye open, and is ready at a moment's notice for anything that
may occur.
"Who's there?" shouted a voice.
"Mackenzie," answered the sheriff.
Almost at the same moment the door opened, and a man stepped out.
"Hello, Worth!" said the sheriff. "You'd better bring the wife and
children further down. Harry Hodson just came down the trail and reports
a big bunch of Indians a few miles up, and----"
But Worth did not wait to hear any more.
"John," Worth shouted back into his shack; "you and Ben help your mother
pack up the bedding and take care of the baby. We've got to be lively.
You know what to do. You see, Mac," he said, turning to the horseman, "I
thought I might as well get things started while you were telling me
about these hostiles."
"All right," said the sheriff. "Good scheme. You might as well saddle up
and come along with me so you can find a place beforehand for the wife
and kids."
In a few minutes both men were on their way to the centre of the town:
Mackenzie, to send out his pickets and guards, and to arrange the
placing of stock and wagons; Worth, to find a temporary shelter for his
family. The boys, John and Ben, were left behind to look after the home,
pack up the goods, catch and saddle the horses. It was a seemingly big
task for boys of ten and twelve, but from the time these boys were able
to walk they--in common with other boys of the frontier--had to look out
largely for themselves. They were strong, sturdy little chaps. John, the
elder, was his father's right-hand man, and when Mr. Worth was away on
one of his frequent freighting trips, John was often called upon to take
care of the family in emergencies much like the present one.
In this frontier town, the reports of bands of hostile Indians coming to
raid and kill were not uncommon. The single man, active, mounted, armed
with weapons as familiar to him as his right hand, had no fear of not
being able to outwit or escape the enemy, wily as the redskins were. In
fact, the Indians themselves were well aware of the ability of the
plainsmen to cope with them when unhampered by women and children, so
they practically never began hostilities until they could get their
white enemies at a disadvantage. The few families were, therefore, their
especial point of attack. It was their helplessness that tempted the
onslaught and aroused the savage instincts of these marauders. When the
head of the family, the bread winner, was away, the dread of these
fearful, relentless attacks on his helpless ones abode with him always.
The mother and children, left at home, lived always under the shadow of
the same fear.
John and his brother, therefore, fully understood the danger and the
need for speedy and careful preparation. They had often, at the warning
of the hostiles' approach, helped their mother make a fort of the solid
log house by piling up the scanty furniture and bedding against the
doors and windows, leaving only loopholes for their rifles; and though
the present situation was one that would make ordinary boys useless
through fear, John and Ben, on the contrary, were too busy to worry;
they knew exactly what was to be done, and in their sturdy, independent
way went to work to do it.
"Say, Ben," said John, as they went toward the corral (the circular
inclosure in which the saddle horses were kept), "I'll bet it's just
those Indians we saw across the river, day before yesterday, while we
were hunting Gannons' horses. There was a lot of squaws in that bunch,
do you remember?"
"That's right," assented Ben; "and I'll bet that some of Gannons' horses
were in that lot of Indian ponies. If it was ten dollars reward instead
of five, it might have been worth while to run the risk of trying to
find out; but five dollars is too little to go fooling around a strange
Indian's camp for."
The talk was ended by their arrival at the corral and the subsequent
busy time catching and bridling of the horses. The ponies were then led
to the door, where they were saddled. As they were cinching them up--as
the tightening of the girths is called--Mr. Worth returned. In a few
minutes the whole family were on their way to the Sebells', one of the
other Bismarck families who lived on Main Street.
In town they found all activity. Horsemen were galloping to and fro,
cattle, horses, and mules dashed in and out, wagons driven at full speed
crossed and recrossed the dusty street. As soon as they were installed
at their new-found shelter and their household goods disposed of, John
went with his father to get in the extra stock of horses and mules, for,
next to his family, these are the freighter's chief care.
They found their stock together, as was expected, for animals,
particularly horses, that come from the same place, always stay
together. This instinct made it much easier for the herder to gather his
own, when there were many animals belonging to different outfits on a
common grazing ground. The Worth stock was promptly driven inside the
now almost complete circle of wagons, and there tied.
A group of men were busy piling up boxes, barrels, and bales, taken from
the freighters' wagons, into the semblance of breastworks. As John and
his father approached, the sheriff came forward and joined them.
"Family all right, Worth?" he asked, kindly. "I sent up a couple of men
to help you and they reported that your shack was deserted and the place
locked up for keeps. You didn't waste any time."
"That was good of you, Mac," said Mr. Worth, holding out his hand. "How
you're able to think of so many things at once, beats me. Yes, we got
out in pretty quick shape; you see my boys, Johnny here and Ben, are
first-rate hands to depend on in an emergency. They did pretty near the
whole thing to-night. By the way, the boys were hunting horses up the
river day before yesterday, and saw quite a large bunch of Indians in
the brush below Harry Hodson's."
[Illustration: MOUNTING A BUCKING BRONCHO.]
"Why didn't you say something about this before?" interrupted the
sheriff, turning to John.
"Ben and I have seen plenty of Indians," said John, eagerly. "There were
a lot of squaws in this bunch, so I didn't believe they were a war
party. We didn't think anything more about them until this scare came up
to-night."
"Well, you have got a good head on you, young man. I don't know but you
are right, and this may be a false alarm. Still Hodson generally knows
what he's talking about." The sheriff was speaking more to himself than
to his hearers. "I'm glad we've got a lot of first-rate scrappers with
us; I guess the reds would think twice if they knew what they were
running up against."
All was now comparatively quiet. The work and strain of preparation was
succeeded by a time of waiting, a period of suspense that was, perhaps,
harder to bear than the first shock of the unpleasant news.
John and his father returned to their temporary home to calm the
mother's fears. Mrs. Worth had the family rifle ready, and Ben had
polished and oiled every cartridge in the belt, so that they would slip
in without jamming. Mr. Worth shouldered the gun and went out, leaving
the boys with their mother. Though all was now quiet and his mother and
brother were asleep, John could not close his eyes. He understood, as
his younger brother could not, the danger that menaced the household and
the town. Death, swift, by knife or bullet, or slow through torture, was
sure to come if that band of Indians got inside the inclosure. He had
heard gruesome tales describing the treatment that the savages meted out
to their prisoners and the horror of it would not leave him. At last he
could stand it no longer. Quickly he rose from the heap of bedding and
stole to the door. He was fully dressed, and his little six-shooter
still slung on his left hip where he had buckled it when the sheriff
first knocked at the home shack.
All was still outside, except for the occasional stamping of a pony or
the distant wail of a coyote. Pickets were posted just over the rise to
the north of the town, from which direction the attack was expected.
They were to give warning of the approach of the Indians by a rifle
shot.
Suddenly there was borne on the breeze to the waiting men the sound of
galloping horses. Louder it grew, then fainter; then again still louder.
So the sound wavered, but ever came nearer.
The watchers sprang to their feet, rifles ready, eyes gleaming.
"Steady, boys," said the calm voice of Mackenzie. "Wait a bit."
Still the thumping of many hoofs approached nearer.
What had become of the pickets? Had they been all killed with the
enemy's noiseless arrows? Or had they been lured away beyond hearing and
shot?
Daylight was breaking; the enemy could now be seen, that was one
comfort. And as they stood, ears alert, eyes strained, their nerves
keyed up to the tensest pitch, awaiting the onslaught, that ominous
noise of hoof-beats came ever nearer, nearer, nearer.
Suddenly a horse's head appeared above the brow of the hill, then
another and another until quite a score or more were in plain view. They
dashed down the incline toward the corral of wagons. But they were all
riderless! Presently two riders appeared. They shouted a greeting as
they came down the hill and explained that they were of the N bar N
outfit (that is to say, their brand bore these marks:) [Symbol:
N over N with line between].
A space was hastily cleared between the wagons to allow these newcomers'
horses to enter the inclosure; but it was too late; the bunch parted,
turning to right and left. The two herders also separated in pursuit,
each following a bunch.
Immediate danger over, the waiting men relaxed their extra vigilance,
and all hands watched the efforts of the two herders in their vain
attempts to head off their charges. The sheriff was just saying, "I wish
some of you fellows would help round up that bunch; we want to get them
all in before the hostiles show up," when a third horseman appeared,
riding like the wind.
"Say, that chap has got a fresh horse," said "Casino," one of the
freighters.
The new arrival, after a headlong dash, regardless of ditches, brush,
and badger holes, succeeded in rounding up the frightened horses, and
with the help of the herder, drove them into camp. A similar performance
soon brought in the other bunch.
As the new rider trotted in through the gap, some one shouted: "What'll
you take for that horse? He's a regular whirlwind."
"Yes," said one of the herders, "he's a dandy, isn't he? My stock would
have got away if Johnny Worth hadn't come out on Baldy."
"So it's Johnny Worth, eh!" said Bill Smith. "Good work, kid."
"Oh!" said Johnny, "they're only worn-out, winded plugs; they were easy
for Baldy. He was saddled and all ready," the boy added in explanation.
"Well done, Johnny," said the sheriff, who had once before that night
praised the boy's pluck. Then, turning to the group about him, "Some of
you boys had better get breakfast," said he; "there's no telling when
that war party may turn up, and you must eat now when you have the
chance."
CHAPTER II.
THE YOUNG BRAVE'S DARING.
While the men were eating (a sufficient number being left to keep watch
and guard) in one of the dance halls, which was hastily impressed for
the purpose, the herders of the N bar N outfit were questioned as to
their knowledge of the Indians.
They reported that the redskins were in force and were coming rapidly in
the direction of the town. That while they were guarding their stock,
they were startled by the sudden appearance of an Indian near them, who
yelled and waved his blanket, and finally succeeded in stampeding the
animals. They started off at a gallop after the horses, and this
solitary brave forthwith disappeared.
The stock stampeded but the herders stayed with them, riding full speed
over all sorts of rough country. The Indians appeared at intervals in
pursuit of them, and added to the confusion and danger by keeping up a
running fire.
The herders said they were about to give up the attempt to keep their
charges out of the savages' hands when they came in sight of the town.
"Even then," said one of the men, called Singing Jim, "we couldn't have
corralled the beasts if that youngster hadn't chased out to help us on a
fresh horse, and a fast one at that."
"We'll have troubles yet," said the other herder, Calamity Jake he was
called, because of his ability to see small black clouds of evil a great
distance off. "Plenty of trouble, too, in the shape of Indians on the
warpath. They were not far behind us when we reached these diggin's."
"What became of your wagons?" said Harry Hodson, a mouthful of beans
interfering somewhat with his speech.
"Oh, I guess they're done for. Probably makin' light for the Indians to
do a war dance by," remarked Singing Jim, cheerfully.
"I reckon not," said Mackenzie, who had appeared in time to hear the
last; "they'll not show their location by making a big blaze like--"
"I heard a shot fired from over the hill," shouted Johnny, who stuck his
head in at the door that moment. "Maybe it's one of the pickets."
The men jumped up and made a rush for the door. The herder, Singing
Jim, who was the last man out, exclaimed as he disappeared, "Well, if
that kid ain't ubikkertous, as the States' papers say!"
Several shots were now heard and then the pickets topped the rise and
made a break down the slope to the town.
The enemy was close, but still invisible behind the ridge.
The men lay crouched behind their barricade, silent, alert, ready for
what might come. The three pickets made their way back to the
breastworks and reported that the advance guard had shown itself coming
down a _coulie_ half a mile away, and the main body, probably fifty
strong, was straggling after when the pickets last looked back. A long
night of vigil and hurried preparation had told on these watchers and
they were anxious to begin the work and end the suspense. The short ten
minutes which elapsed seemed ten hours. Then two Indians rode to the top
of the ridge and looked down upon the preparations for their reception.
They were a long rifle shot distant and the defenders had no ammunition
to spare. Moreover, if unprovoked, the redskins might go without firing
a shot. To tell the truth, however, especially when they saw the
unlikelihood of making a successful assault, most of the little
garrison were in the mood to feel disappointed if the attack ended so
harmlessly.
"If those fellows are hard up for a fight," said Big Bill Smith, "maybe
they'll tackle us; but I never saw an Indian yet that would ride a
quarter of a mile in the open under fire even when he wanted something
to eat,"--and Bill knew Indians.
"They won't leave without tryin' us," said Casino. "You'll see if I
ain't right."
A moment later two painted and befeathered savages appeared to the left,
and rode full tilt along the hillside in direct view of the camp,
yelling and waving their blankets in derision: a tantalizing sight to
the waiting men.
"Keep steady, there," called Mackenzie, sternly, as several rifles were
raised. "There's no use shooting now; they're only trying to draw our
fire and find out how strong we are. There'll be more presently. Wait
for them."
A few minutes later half a dozen braves repeated the ruse. The flying
figures, almost naked, being poor targets, the fire of the little
garrison was still reserved. A dozen then made the run, one following
the other, at regular intervals. More and more of the painted, yelling,
gesticulating savages followed, dashing along the slope in single file
and disappearing over the ridge to the right, until what was a short
line became a procession.
Presently they began to creep down the hill, each rider advancing beyond
the one preceding him, all yelling epithets of contempt as they came
ever nearer the silent garrison.
This was the regular mode of Indian attack; it afforded them an
opportunity to fire and yet gave their enemy a very poor chance to do
any damage.
A desultory firing began; each Indian letting go his reins, fired his
rifle as best he could as he rushed past. The shooting was naturally
bad, for there was no chance to take careful aim. If the savages
planned, however, to draw the fire of the besieged and so determine
their strength, the scheme failed, for not a shot was fired from the
camp, though the provocation was great.
The rushing line came closer and closer. The colors of the war paint and
fluttering feathers could now be plainly seen. It was within easy range,
but still the fire was withheld. Each Indian had worked himself into the
frenzy which is so necessary a part of a brave's courage.
As the distance was lessened, the savages' aim became better, and
several bullets struck the wagons and the barricade. The situation began
to be interesting; any shot might now reach its human target, and the
temptation to return the fire was almost irresistible.
But the sheriff only said, "Not yet."
The bullets were striking freely and the yelling enemy were within easy
revolver range.
At last Mackenzie, who showed signs of suppressed eagerness, said, just
loud enough to be heard: "Boys, don't shoot when your man is opposite;
wait till he has passed, then aim at his back and shoot straight. You
can't hit him otherwise. Ready now. Fire!"
This was not a military company, but a band of frontiersmen, which a
common danger united under the leadership of one man. The volley which
followed, therefore, was not one of precision, for every man took his
time and pulled the trigger when he was ready.
The Indians, anticipating a return fire, rode by at full speed, their
bodies hugging their horses closely. They made difficult targets, so the
first few shots did nothing more than kill and disable a horse or two;
but soon the fire became more rapid and accurate. A big buck was seen to
fall out of his saddle, another was thrown violently from a wounded
horse, several were hit in arms and legs. The yelling diminished and the
line moved further up the slope, scattering as it went.
As the file, now rather scattered, turned the ridge at the right,
firing as it moved, a young buck, in full war regalia and mounted on a
beautiful bay pony, bounded into view. He dashed out of the circle of
Indians, and rode boldly down toward the white men, yelling defiance.
He was a young chief endeavoring to earn the approval of his tribe and
the consequent advancement and influence, according to the custom of the
Sioux. Down the hill he came with a rush right into the thick of the
fire, and yet, though the bullets whistled on all sides of him, he was
unharmed. Nearer and nearer he drew, until he reached a point within two
hundred yards of the white man's guns. Then he stopped, turned his pony
half-way round and flourished his revolver derisively, yelling
imprecations at the garrison the while. He then fired a shot which came
so close to John, that he was sure he could feel the wind of it--the
sound was unmistakable.
After this reckless feat, the young chief trotted slowly back to his own
people, but kept his face always towards his enemies. The daring of the
deed took both sides by surprise, and for a time hardly a shot was fired
by white man or red. It was a tribute to the young brave's courage and
bravado.
It would not do, however, to let him escape unharmed. Other warriors
might be inspired to emulate the rash act, and if they took it into
their heads to rush the stockade there would certainly be much loss of
life.
The Indians now began firing again, covering as well as possible their
comrade's retreat. Those behind the barricade also woke up.
"Shoot that fellow, boys," cried Big Bill. "He mustn't get away unhurt.
We've got to discourage that sort of thing."
Every man aimed at the fleeing Indian, but still he rode with his face
towards his foe, gesturing defiance. The feathers in his war-bonnet
fluttered in the wind, and the quirt hung on his upraised right wrist
swayed with the motion of his pony.
Of a sudden a single rifle spoke from the white man's intrenchments,
and, in an instant, the young chief was changed from a superb living
bronze statue to a lump. He fell, clawing at his saddle and yelling
shrilly. His well-trained war pony slowed down and circled back to where
his master lay.
All this occupied much less time than it takes to tell it.
During this distraction, half a dozen Indians, who had been unhorsed,
rose from their brush coverts and ran for their lives to gain the more
substantial refuge which the ridge afforded. Four escaped, but two were
dropped in their tracks before they could reach the shelter.
Though bullets had dropped all around the white men, none had been hit.
"Had enough?" said the sheriff. "Found the camp stronger than you
thought, eh?"
Such seemed to be the case, for, after a long parley, which was held
discreetly out of range, the band disappeared, leaving their dead on the
prairie.
An attempt had been made to rescue the fallen, but the risk was too
great, and it was given up.
The Indians had been gone some time before the little garrison crept
carefully from under cover, for the Sioux were notoriously tricky and
their apparent departure might simply be a ruse to put their enemies off
their guard.
Finally, however, the sheriff turned to his men. "Casino," said he,
"you, Singing Jim, and Calamity Jake follow their trail and see what
becomes of them. If they start to come back you hump yourselves and let
us know. You'd better go along, Hodson, and look after your stock."
The men appointed saddled up and started out without delay. The good
wishes of those remaining went with them. It was a perilous
undertaking, for there was no telling where the war party might be or
what they might do.
After the scouts had left, guards were set to keep watch and prevent a
surprise, though it was thought that there was little danger of an
attack by daylight.
The sheriff and the rest of the men began to count noses, not only of
men but of stock, for it might be that in the excitement some one or
some animal had been hit unknown to the others. In fact, it would be a
marvel if one bullet had not reached its mark, since, at times, they had
dropped around like hail.
All were found intact, but several of the wagons had been pretty badly
riddled.
A barrel of molasses which rested in one of the wagons was punctured by
a 45-calibre bullet, and the sticky stuff leaked down on and in a trunk
marked "Charles R. Green, Boston."
"Belongs to a tenderfoot who got stalled with the rest of his outfit
near the railroad," Casino had explained, when some one remarked on the
strange object.
Certainly the "tenderfoot" was having rather a novel introduction to the
hardships of frontier life. As Charley Green said afterwards, "he was
stuck on himself for fair."
Mr. Worth and John now thought of the family at the Sebells', and at
the first lull they made their way back between wagons, around and
through bunches of cattle, mules, and horses to the house. It was hard
to tell which was most glad to see the other, but a stranger coming in
would not have realized that this was the return of a father and son
after several hours' exposure to all the perils of Indian warfare. There
were no tears of joy, no outward demonstration of happiness. The
frontiersman had learned, perhaps from the Indian, perhaps from stern
nature herself, to keep his feelings to himself. Even John and Ben were
not demonstrative.
"I suppose you did 'em up?" said the latter to his more fortunate
brother. "How many were there in the party?"
John dropped to the floor, for the experience of the night before was,
at least, trying. "Sure we did," he answered. "They didn't come till
daylight and so were in plain sight, while we were under cover, see?
Same bunch we saw the other day, I guess. Phew! I'm tired."
He had hardly got the words out of his mouth before he was sound asleep,
and, not long after, his father was also in the land where none but
phantom enemies are seen.
The Indians evidently had enough, for they disappeared, taking with
them, however, some of the N bar N stock. The two herders accepted the
situation, each in his own fashion.
"I told you so," groaned Calamity Jake. "These pesky Indians ought to be
wiped off the face of the earth."
Singing Jim, however, merely grinned, and said as he ran his fingers
through his hair: "Well, I'm glad this thatch is not decorating some
Sioux tepee. I think it looks better on me than it would on a lodge
pole."
After this, things went on in much the same old way in the little
frontier town, for the Indians did not venture another attack.
In spite of its small size, Bismarck was a busy place and was the
distributing point for a large unsettled territory.
Freighters came in from points on the distant railroad with provisions
for the cattlemen, trappers, and miners, and the constantly changing
population of the town. Their wagons were in long trains, one hitched to
the other, the whole drawn by many teams of mules and driven by one man,
who rode the near mule next the first wagon, controlling his team by a
single "jerk line," which ran to the front near animal. This mule, who
was picked for his intelligence, knew that one pull on the line meant
turn left, and two short jerks indicated that a right turn was wanted;
moreover, he knew just how wide a sweep to make to clear an obstruction.
When the trapper came to town to bring in his pelts for shipment East,
and to get a supply of pork, beans, and coffee---his standbys in the
matter of diet---and when the cowboy raced in with a couple of pack
ponies to get supplies for his outfit, the rare opportunity was always
taken advantage of to enjoy what pleasures the town afforded. The
gamblers and saloon keepers did a thriving business, though a perilous
one, for, on the slightest provocation, the frontiersman was ever ready
with his shooting irons.
It was only a few weeks after the Indian attack described before the
parching heat of summer began to give way before the dreaded wintry
breath of the North.
John and Ben, when they went out to guard their father's stock, gave up
their daily swimming in the river and took up horse racing instead; and
many a race was hotly contested. The boy, however, who rode Baldy, the
big bay, always won.
Mr. Worth, as has been noted before, was a freighter; he was also a
miner, opening up mines of coal in the deep-cut river banks, the coal so
obtained being sold to the government for the fort garrisons.
[Illustration: GLANCING OVER SAW AN INDIAN VILLAGE. (_Page 37._)]
On these coal-prospecting trips he usually went alone, carrying on his
back the bare necessaries of life: a blanket, perhaps a string of bacon,
a bag of beans, and a little coffee, besides the never-absent rifle and
revolver.
Late in the fall, Mr. Worth set out on a prospecting trip. The garrisons
of Fort Lincoln and other outposts situated up the river were clamoring
for more fuel, and no time must be lost if they were to be supplied
before the heavy snows set in.
John went with his father a half day's journey, helping to carry his
equipment. They started out afoot, and the mother, holding the baby in
her arms, watched them.
"So long," called back Mr. Worth, as he started out.
"So long," returned his wife.
At dark, John returned and, in his self-sufficient way, began to prepare
for the night. He and Ben each saddled a horse, of which there were
several tied to a pole, and set out to round up the "saddle band" (as
the ponies which were reserved for riding were called), and the work
stock of mules and pack horses. They were not far off, nibbling the
tufted buffalo grass, and soon were turned toward the corral, the boys
riding on either side, ready to head off any animal that showed a
disposition to separate or lead the "bunch" astray.
The stock safely disposed of, John and Ben went back to the shack, but
were promptly sent out again for wood and water.
"Let's get a lot of wood," said Ben, "for it's colder than blazes. Hope
the governor will find a good place to turn in to-night."
"Oh, he's all right," replied John, between grunts, for the load of wood
he was carrying was both heavy and bulky.
An hour or so later, the windows and door were barred, the embers of the
fire scattered, and all hands turned in for the night. The beds were
really bunks built into the wall, and were not exactly luxurious, spring
mattresses being quite unknown; but the boys found them comfortable, and
in a minute or two were rolled in their blankets like great cocoons and
fast asleep.
* * * * *
Mr. Worth was not expected back for several weeks, for his journey was
to be a long one and subject to many delays on account of bad weather
and, worse, Indians.
It was about a week after he had left that Charley Green came up to
where the boys sat on the door-step braiding whips or quirts.
"Hullo, kids," he said, "Mr. Mackenzie wants--what are you doing?" His
curiosity made him forget his errand.
"Braidin' a rope to hang a couple of horse thieves," said John,
facetiously. "What did you think we were doing, branding calves?"
Even the kids made fun of the "tenderfoot," who was really a good
fellow, just out from an Eastern college, but densely ignorant as far as
Western ways went. He saw he was being laughed at, and so hastened to
come back to his errand.
"Mr. Mackenzie wants some old clothes, blankets, and other warm things
for a man who turned up just now, half-dressed. He's almost frozen.
White man, too," he added.
In a few minutes John and Tenderfoot Green reached the sheriff's shack,
bearing clothes and blankets. The crowd that stood before the door
parted and allowed them to pass.
In the far corner of the room, leaning over the fire, sat a man who
turned his head as John and Green came in.
"Why, it's my father!" cried John.
CHAPTER III.
A NARROW ESCAPE.
The boy rushed forward and asked what had happened.
The small, rough living-room in the sheriff's shack was soon crowded
with men who pressed forward eager to hear the story.
When Mr. Worth was rested somewhat and thoroughly warmed through, he
began:
"After leaving home, I travelled for two days and nothing happened.
There were plenty of Indian signs about, marks of moccasined feet and
prints of unshod horses' hoofs."
"Where were you bound?" asked some one.
"Up the river near Fort Stevenson. Got a coal mine up there, you know,"
the narrator answered. "Well, I kept a pretty sharp lookout for
hostiles--and all the Indians are hostile around Fort Stevenson--but up
to the time I'm going to tell you about I didn't see any. I followed the
old trails made by the buffalo and deer across the prairie, and did my
best to cover up my own tracks--wore moccasins till the cacti cut 'em
too much, then shifted to boots. Of course boots made a much clearer
print and would give me away sure if they were seen."
"Why?" whispered Tenderfoot Green to Casino.
"Because, you chump," retorted Casino, "the Indians never wear boots, so
they know right away when they see marks of heel and sole that a white
man has been that way. See?"
Worth continued, without noticing this whispered colloquy: "I was
getting nearer and nearer the river every minute, and I knew that when I
got there my chances of getting through all right would be better, for
the brush and banks would afford the cover that the prairie lacked."
His hearers nodded their heads understandingly, and even Tenderfoot
Green seemed to take in the situation.
"The wind was getting pretty keen, and I was afraid it would snow; if it
did, I knew my trail would be as plain as a column of smoke in a clear
sky, so I hustled for the river at a good pace. In spite of my hurry,
though, I managed to keep a sharp lookout for Indians. As I topped every
rise I took a good survey of everything in view, and it was well I did,
for about dusk I reached the crest of a low hill, and on glancing over
saw an Indian village. It lay directly in my path, not far from the
river. It was still too light to attempt to go round it, so I lay down
behind some sage brush and watched what was going on. The village, which
contained about fifty tepees, was placed within easy distance of the
river and was well supplied with cottonwood."
"Used the cottonwood for fuel, I suppose?" broke in Green.
"Yes, and the green bark to feed the horses on in heavy snowy weather,"
volunteered Mackenzie.
"Excuse me, Mr. Worth," apologized Tenderfoot, "I didn't mean to
interrupt."
"That's all right," said Worth. "A lot of squaws were busy doing men's
work, as is the way of the poor things, scraping hides that were staked
on the ground, mending buffalo-skin tepees, pounding berries, carrying
wood and water. Some were busy with easier jobs, such as making deerskin
clothes and ornamenting moccasins with beads. I could see only a few
bucks; the others were probably off on a hunt. There was danger in
that, for if they found my trail on their way back to camp they would of
course follow it, and then--well, I should be lucky to come out of it
alive."
The listening men began to show signs of impatience. All this was an old
story to them; they wanted to hear the end of the tale, and how he came
to be in such a plight.
"Well, to make a long story short," said Worth, beginning to realize
that he was telling much that was obvious to most of his hearers, "while
I lay there, planning and idly watching the Indian camp, the hunting
party was actually returning. Suddenly I felt the weight of a man on my
back. I struggled and fought, and finally threw him off. Jumping to my
feet, I faced two savages who had come in advance of the main party and
had stolen on me unawares. Both now rushed at me, but I dodged one and
tripped the other. Before I could finish the man I had thrown, the first
was at me again. Loaded as I was by my pack, I was soon fagged. My gun
had been taken by the redskin when he fell on me. Why he didn't use it
on me I cannot understand--perhaps I didn't give him time. Now both of
them jumped for me, and try as I might I could not dodge or disable
them. I had already begun to fear that the game was up, when I saw a
whole bunch of Indians, the rest of the hunting party, coming along the
trail.
"There wasn't any use fighting a mob like that, so I stopped struggling,
let my captors hold me, and waited for whatever might come.
"The redskins crowded around me, and I thought that my time had come.
"'Stev'son, you come in,' says one brave. 'Hoss, pony, you got 'em?'
calls out another big scowling savage. I shook my head.
"Then I caught sight of a face I knew--old Chief Looking Glass. (I
warmed him up with coffee once when he was near frozen to death. Indians
will do most anything for a cup of coffee.) He pushed forward through
the crowd and shook hands with me. I could see he was trying to get his
men to separate and leave us, but it wasn't any sort of use; they
pressed around, and it was very evident that they wanted my pack.
Looking Glass finally started alone towards the camp, calling to his
braves to come along, but this plan didn't work at all; for the minute
he got out of sight over the brow of the hill the thieving gang began to
strip me. There was no use resisting; they were too many for me. Before
I knew where I was I was stark naked, except for a few rags. Even my
boots were yanked off. We were almost in the village by this time, for
I had been pulled and pushed over the crest and down the slope of the
hill. My tormentors then left me and began to divide my outfit, so I
crawled off, shivering and sore, anxious to get out of sight as soon as
possible."
"Wasn't it cold?" said Tenderfoot Green.
"Rather," said Mr. Worth, a grim smile showing on his weather-beaten
face. "A man does not go tramping across the bare prairie in weather
like this dressed in a few rags, bare-footed, and feel as if he was in a
hot spring. It was fully as cold as it is now, and this is a pretty
sharp day." He shivered at the mere remembrance, while his listeners
gave a general laugh at the simplicity of the question.
"Where did you get your blanket and moccasins?" asked Green, anxious to
divert the crowd's attention.
He pointed at the articles that Worth seemed to be guarding with
unnecessary care.
"These here blanket and moccasins saved my life," continued the latter.
"As I was pushing along I heard a woman's voice calling. I turned and
saw a squaw running after me with a blanket and a pair of moccasins in
her hands. 'Looking Glass blanket and moccasins,' she said, as she
handed them to me. Then she turned timidly and ran back to the camp.
"It was almost dark now, and growing colder every minute. I put on the
moccasins, wrapped the blanket around me, though it smelled strong of
Indian, and set out at a dog-trot in the direction of a wagon trail. If
I could reach that I might be lucky enough to strike a white man's camp
or a freighter's outfit, and then I should be all right.
"I travelled all that night, keeping in the right direction by a sort of
instinct that my knowledge of the lay of the land gave me. It was a
pretty tough journey though, I can tell you. I had to fight hard to keep
off the sleepy feeling that comes before freezing, and for hour after
hour I dragged myself along numb and aching with the cold, but hoping
against all reason and probability that I might run across some of the
boys before it was too late. Toward daybreak I must have got kinder
lonely, for I lost track of things, and only came to myself in the
freighters' camp that I had run into half asleep."
He paused here, and John saw that his eyes were half closed and his head
nodding. The ordeal had told on even his sturdy health.
In a thick, sleepy voice he added: "Ask Jim White; he knows the rest--he
brought me in."
Jim White could add little to the story. Worth came into his camp, he
explained, more dead than alive and "clean out of his head." He and his
partner had cared for him and brought him to town as fast as the teams
could go.
John's father was taken over to his own shack, where his wife greeted
him like one come back from the dead. Under her good nursing he
recovered from his terrible experience in a marvellously short time and
became again his own sturdy self. The frontiersman must of necessity be
possessed of an iron constitution, for he must be able to endure
hardships of all kinds--intense heat and piercing cold, hunger and
thirst, fatigue and pain, that would either kill an ordinary man
outright or cripple him for life.
It was with inward dread that the little family watched its head start
off again, after a few weeks' stay in town. Outwardly, however,
cheerfulness, almost indifference, was manifested. This time he went
with a party which was going in the same direction; the danger was,
consequently, not so great. Then, too, the cold weather kept the Indians
pretty close to their own camps, and as the locations of these were
generally known, they could be easily avoided.
* * * * *
The boys' hearts were gladdened by the news that, perhaps, the home
shack would be abandoned in the spring, when their father returned. If
so, the whole family would "hit the trail" to the north and west.
Up to this time the Worth boys had been town dwellers, though in these
days Bismarck could hardly be dignified even by the name of village.
John and Ben, in common with the few other boys, had enjoyed the
comparatively tame pleasures afforded by the town and the surrounding
prairie. All large game had been driven west, and only prairie dogs,
gophers, coyotes, and occasionally wolves remained; these and the birds
the boys used to shoot at day after day with their ever-ready revolvers.
The sport in the river was not all that could be wished for either, for
the water was muddy and the bottom was full of quicksands. And if summer
lacked diversions, winter was a still more uninteresting season, in that
the pleasures were fewer and the discomforts greater.
It was therefore with great glee that John and Ben looked forward to
this pilgrimage. A hilly country was to be visited, where game of all
sorts abounded, where clear streams were plenty, and where new sports of
all kinds were in prospect. Marvellous tales of trapping beaver, and
hunting antelope, bear, and even buffalo, were brought in by hunters, so
the boys were wild to enjoy these new pleasures.
The Government was trying to confine the Indians to the reservations
that had been set apart for them, but the redskins had been accustomed
to roam over the country at will, to follow the game wherever it went,
to make war upon each other whenever they felt like it or needed horses;
so they resented any attempt to interfere with their entire freedom, and
turned fiercely on their white foes wherever they found them, singly or
in camps and settlements. The Government, in order to better protect its
citizens, erected at intervals outposts garrisoned by troops.
There being no railroads across the continent at this time, goods of all
kinds had to be carried in wagons from the nearest railroad station to
the fort or point of distribution. The supply of fuel, too, was a matter
of great importance. It was in the main a treeless country and wood was
scarce. The early prospectors and pioneers had noticed the outcroppings
of coal from the deep-cut river banks, but little advantage was taken of
this store of fuel till the forts were established and the little
steamboats began to ply up and down the Missouri loaded deep with skins
and buffalo hides.
Mr. Worth was one of the first to see the value of these coal veins, and
he was a leader in developing the mineral resources of the section. He
opened and worked mines as near the different outposts as possible and
at convenient points for the supply of coal to the river boats.
The Eastern railroads were stretching their long steel arms westward,
and they also needed to be supplied with food for their furnaces.
Mr. Worth had contracted with these coal consumers to open mines which,
when in good running order, were to be turned over to them to work. In
order to do this it was necessary to travel from place to place,
starting the work at intervals along the proposed line so as to be ready
when the "steel trail" actually reached them. It was this contract that
made it necessary for them to give up the home shack at Bismarck and to
journey into hostile country. Mr. Worth could not return to the
settlement to his family; the family must therefore come to him in the
wilds.
Much of the long winter was spent by the boys in talking over the good
times they were going to have when they reached the new country. At
times a trapper would come in to get a stock of supplies, and John and
Ben listened eagerly to every word he said about his experiences. These
tales were old stories to most of the men of the little town, who paid
no attention to such commonplace matters, but Charley Green, like the
boys, was seeking information, and he drank in every word as eagerly as
they.
Much of Green's ignorance had disappeared, though "Tenderfoot" was still
his nickname, and by that he would be called as long as he lived there.
He had changed outwardly as well. The Eastern pallor had given place to
a good, healthy, bronzed tint, his eye was clear and his hand steady; he
had lost weight but had gained in endurance. His gay, expensive outfit
of clothes had been succeeded by the more sober and serviceable apparel
of the plains: wide, heavy felt hat, flannel shirt, rough trousers with
protecting leather overalls or chaps, and high boots. He had learned
enough about Western ways to avoid making many blunders, and took a joke
at his expense good naturedly when he did occasionally betray himself.
It was not considered polite in Bismarck to inquire anything about a
man's past--that was his own business. It was not necessary for a man to
give his pedigree and family name in order to be received into the
society of his fellows. It was not his past that concerned them, but his
present. "Lariat Bill" was quite as good for all practical purposes as
his real name, perhaps better, for it was descriptive and identified him
at once. In accordance with this unwritten law, no one asked what
Charley Green's idea was in leaving the civilization and culture of
Boston for the wild, free, albeit rough, life of the plains; but rumor
had it that he came there with the intention of going into ranching. If
so, he was wise beyond his generation, for unlike most of his fellows he
looked before he leaped.
Tenderfoot and the two boys had struck up quite a friendship. It was
quite natural, therefore, knowing as he did the Worths' plans, for him
to say one day, towards the end of the winter: "Do you suppose, John,
that your dad would take me along on his mining expedition?"
"I dunno," said John, "you'll have to ask the governor when he comes
back. I guess he would."
"You see," continued Tenderfoot, "I'm about as tired of this place as
you are, and I want to see a little of the country. I guess I could earn
my salt as a mule-wrangler anyway."
So it was decided that the young Easterner was to go with the Worths if
the head of the house consented.
The dreary winter was beginning to give way to the soft south winds. The
snow was fast disappearing and buffalo grass was showing brightly green
here and there. The boys had an unusually bad attack of spring fever,
for the long-looked-for time of the pilgrimage was drawing near.
Their father might be expected any day, and then--their delight and
anticipation could not be put into words.
Mr. Worth at length came in, loaded down with his pack, his arms, and
his heavy winter furs.
Keen and bitter disappointment was in store for the impatient boys. They
were told that it would not be safe to move away from the town, for the
whole country was full of hostile, well-armed, well-fed Sioux.
The Black Hills of southwestern Dakota had been found to contain gold in
paying quantities. This region was considered almost sacred by the
Indians and jealously guarded. It was now aggressively penetrated by the
bold miners, and this naturally created much bad feeling between them
and the original owners. In order to allay this feeling the Government
made a treaty with the Indians by which it was agreed that the
encroaching miners should be driven out. The disregarding of this treaty
or its ineffective enforcement roused the Sioux to open warfare.
The tribes were collecting under the leadership of Sitting Bull and
Rain-in-the-Face. Several small skirmishes had been fought and numbers
of men on both sides had been killed. Small outfits, too, had been wiped
out completely by the savage red foe.
It would have been suicidal, therefore, for the Worth family to venture
within the enemy's country, as had been previously planned.
Indeed, while there was probably little danger of an attack at this time
on Bismarck, the centre of hostilities being many hundred miles to the
westward, great precautions were taken even there every night to guard
against surprise, and the people, especially the children, never went
far afield.
The spring passed and another summer's scorching heat began.
Occasionally accounts came in of battles fought and victories won,
sometimes by one side, sometimes by the other. It was a time of
uncertainty; business enterprise was at a standstill, and, since there
was little to do in the frontier town, diversion of any kind was hailed
with delight. So the Fourth of July celebration that was to be held at
Black Jack's dance hall was looked forward to with great expectations by
old and young.
[Illustration: Custer's command. (_Page 53._)]
Independence Day at length arrived, and was greeted at the first showing
of light in the east by a volley of revolver shots. The celebration was
kept up with enthusiasm all day. Tenderfoot made a patriotic speech that
took the crowd by storm--he was no tenderfoot in that line, for his
college debating society experience served him in good stead.
At sundown the guests began to arrive at Black Jack's, and before an
hour had passed the ball was in full swing. It could hardly be called a
fashionable assemblage: the men, of whom there were three or four to
every woman, were dressed much as usual, spurs and all, except that in
compliance with the request placarded prominently, their "guns" were
laid aside.
A single fiddler served for an orchestra, and also acted as master of
ceremonies, calling out the figures of the dances.
The violin was squeaking merrily and the feet of the dancers thumped the
rough boards vigorously, while the lamp lights silhouetted the uncouth
figures as they passed between them and the open window.
John and Ben, who were watching from the outer darkness, were suddenly
startled by hearing the long, deep whistle of the little steamboat.
"What's that?" exclaimed Ben. "Sounds like the _Will o' the Wisp_, but
she hasn't been along the river for a long time."
"Let's go and see," said John. "Must be something doing to bring her
down at this time."
The two boys mounted their horses, which stood already saddled, and
galloped down to the landing. In a few minutes the boat steamed up out
of the darkness, slowed down and made fast to a cottonwood stump.
Hardly had it come to a stop when a man made a running leap to the
platform and dashed toward the boys, who were the only persons at the
place.
"Where's all the people?" he cried excitedly. "Let me take that horse a
minute, sonny."
"Up at Black Jack's," said John, sliding off Baldy's back without delay,
for it was evident that the newcomer brought important news.
The stranger mounted and set off at a hard gallop for Main Street.
Reaching the brightly lighted place, he jumped off and stumbled through
the doorway into the centre of the room.
The fiddler stopped in the middle of a bar, the dancers, who were in the
full swing of "all hands around," stood still in wonder, and every eye
was fixed upon the intruder. He looked like the bearer of bad news.
His clothes showed that he had travelled far and fast, and his manner
evidenced anything but peace of mind. For an instant all was still. Then
Black Jack broke the silence: "Speak out, man! What's up?"
"I've been travelling two days and nights to bring the news," he
panted. "Custer----" he paused for breath.
"Well, hurry up, will you!" exclaimed Mackenzie, shaking his arm.
"Custer and his party have been wiped out by the Indians on the Little
Big Horn!"
CHAPTER IV.
"HITTING THE TRAIL."
The Custer massacre threw the whole country into a spasm of fear.
The killing of three hundred trained fighters and a general, all
renowned for their daring and knowledge of Indian warfare, must give the
enemy a confidence that would be hard to overcome.
Every one wondered where the next blow would be struck and who would be
the next victim. All enterprises were checked, all peaceful journeys
postponed. Not till the autumn of the following year was it deemed safe
for the Worth family to carry out their plan of "pulling up stakes" and
leaving Bismarck.
During the year which had elapsed John and Ben had grown in mind and
body. They were sturdy, strong boys, and were a great help to their
father. Perfectly able to take care of the stock, they could ride like
centaurs and shoot with their "guns" (as the Westerner calls his
revolver) with astonishing accuracy. They used to practice at tomato
cans fifty yards away and soon became so expert that for nearly every
shot a neat round hole appeared in the tin. If you think this easy, try
it. One can will probably last you a long while.
Long before, Charley Green had made a formal request to be included in
the migrating party and had been accepted. He was really quite a
valuable man now, for he had been tried in a number of ticklish places
and had shown a solid strength and coolness in the face of danger.
One bright autumn day the pilgrimage began.
Several men were to accompany the family to a mine that had already been
located fifty miles away. Here the winter was to be spent, and then, if
all went well, another mine might be opened further westward.
The final preparations for moving were soon complete. The household
goods were packed into the great lumbering prairie wagons, canvas-topped
and wide of beam; the little log-built shack was left intact, its rough,
heavy door swinging open.
The frontiersman's household outfit was very simple. The bedding
consisted of blankets; cooking utensils of iron and tin, dining-table
furniture of the same materials, a few chairs, a table or two, and the
baby's crib completed the list. The Worth family had the largest library
in town. It contained their great, brass-bound Bible, "Pilgrim's
Progress," the Catechism (and how the boys dreaded it!), "Robinson
Crusoe," "Scott's Poems," and the "Arabian Nights." These precious books
were of course taken along, for though the boys' father read little and
lacked even the rudiments of education, he had the pride of ownership.
It can be seen at once that this simple collection of necessaries would
not take long to pack and load. Charley Green remarked that "the whole
outfit wouldn't be considered security enough for a week's board in
Boston."
"That's true," answered Mr. Worth, as he lifted the sewing machine (the
only one for miles and miles around) tenderly into the wagon. "But our
household stuff is considered very fine, and people come from long
distances to use this sewing machine."
"The first of May can't have any terrors for you," persisted the
ex-collegian.
Mr. Worth frowned a little, for although Charley's fun was good-natured,
he had a keen dislike to being ridiculed, and had always been
accustomed to considering his equipment as something rather grand--as
indeed it was, compared with his less fortunate neighbors.
After a final glance around to see that nothing had been left, the head
of the family put his wife and baby into the first wagon, but before
climbing in himself he called out to John and Ben to go back to the
corral, saddle two of the horses, and drive the remaining ones after the
wagon train.
The two boys were soon busy catching and saddling the horses. As John
was "cinching" up Baldy, he heard the snap of his father's long
black-snake whip and the creak of the heavy wheels. Then for the first
time he realized that the only home he had ever known was to be left
permanently. The old place suddenly became very dear to him, and the
thought of leaving it was hard to bear; in fact, he had to bury his face
in Baldy's rough, unkempt side to hide the tears that would come despite
his efforts.
Ben, on the contrary, was very cheerful and whistled between the
sentences of talk he flung at his brother. The two years' difference in
their ages showed very plainly in this matter.
"Here, get a move on you, John," he shouted, "my horse's all ready."
The older boy bestirred himself, and in the rush and hurry that
followed he soon forgot his momentary regret.
When they caught up with the wagons they found the procession headed
toward the centre of the settlement and almost in its outskirts.
The town had grown considerably both in population and area since we
first saw it, and ordinarily the departure of a freighter's outfit would
excite but little remark. The exodus of the Worths, however--one of the
few families, and one of the very first settlers--was quite an event.
Many of their friends were on hand to wish them good speed. The boys
felt like "lords of creation" indeed. Were they not bound on a journey
of unknown duration, liable to have all sorts of delightful adventures?
They held their heads up and pitied their boy friends who were to be
left behind--and it must be confessed that the stay-at-homes pitied
themselves.
The wagon train made its way slowly down to the river, where the sheriff
bade them good-by.
"I'm sorry to have you go," he said, nodding to Mr. and Mrs. Worth. "And
those kids of yours," he added, "I wish you could leave them behind; it
will be pretty tough on them, and besides, I'm fond of the little
beggars. However," he went on, as the boys' father shook his head, "I
suppose you know what you're doing. Well, good luck. So long."
"So long," replied the travellers in chorus.
The whole outfit was ferried over the river, passed through the little
village of Mandan clustered around the fort, and then struck out across
the open prairie. It made quite a procession, the light wagon in front,
drawn by two horses and driven by Worth, then a long string of mule
teams hitched to the first of a train of prairie schooners, whose white
canvas-hooped tops shone in the sun. The cooking utensils in the
vehicles and hung under them banged and clattered, the wheels creaked,
the teamsters' long whips, which took two hands to wield, cracked and
snapped.
At the head of the party rode Charley Green, with his long-eared
charges, busy at his self-imposed task of "mule-wrangling." He was new
to the business, and it seemed as if the beasts he was herding were
aware of this. For a while all would go smoothly, the animals closely
bunched, heads down, ears drooped forward, the picture of innocence and
dejection; then suddenly a lanky brute would start out from one side as
if propelled from a gun, and no sooner had Charley dug the spurs into
his pony in his efforts to head it off than another mule would start
off on the other side. Then the whole bunch would scatter, radiating
from a common centre like the spokes of a wheel. John, Ben, and one of
the men (called Tongue-Tied Ted, because of his few words) took a hand
in the game at last, and together they rounded up the stock into a
compact bunch again.
All this was very amusing for the old hands, but Charley did not seem to
enjoy it.
"Mule-wrangling is no snap," he grumbled. "Why, it's easier to stop a
whole rush line than to take care of that gang of long-eared,
rail-backed, dirt-colored, knock-kneed horse imitators."
He had to tackle the job alone, however, for only by experience could he
learn, and experience is a hard and thorough teacher.
The boys trotted alongside, now riding far ahead, now making their
ponies show off near the wagons. Excursions were made from time to time
to shoot at prairie dogs, rabbits, and coyotes. But even this grew
monotonous after a while, and they began to cast about in their minds
for amusement. "Let's go to the river where it makes a bend over there
and take a swim," said Ben, at last.
It was no sooner said than done. They were left to look out for
themselves much of the time, so they went off without saying a word to
any one.
Soon the caravan was lost to view, and after a few minutes' more riding
even the shouts of the men and the barking of the dogs could not be
heard.
The boys had that delightful feeling of entire freedom and half fear
which comes to the inexperienced thrown upon their own resources. The
prairie was perfectly still and the heat was scorching, for the sun was
still high. It was a little awesome, and for a minute John and Ben
wished they were back with their friends. The thought of a cool dip was
very enticing, however, and they would both have been ashamed to turn
back now, so they cantered along, keeping up each other's courage by
shouting and laughing. Reaching the river, they scrambled down the steep
slope, leaving their horses to graze on the level, and in a jiffy were
enjoying a swim in the "Big Muddy." The bottom was free from quicksands,
so the brothers enjoyed themselves to their hearts' content.
They swam, ducked, and dug in the mud, as full of glee as could be. For
an hour or more they revelled in their sport; then John dropped the
handful of dirt he was about to throw and looked around, half scared.
"Hallo," he said, "it's getting dark. We'd better get a move on." They
slid into their clothes as only boys can, and in a few seconds had
regained the top of the bank.
The sun, a fiery red ball, was low down in the western sky and almost
ready to drop out of sight altogether.
"Why!" exclaimed Ben. "Where are the horses?"
They looked hurriedly around and then scanned the rolling prairie and
sage bushes in every direction.
But the horses were not to be seen. Nor was the wagon train in sight.
Not a living thing was visible on the horizon; not a sound could be
heard anywhere. On every side there were only monotonous clumps of sage,
and the sun was getting lower and lower every moment.
They rushed to a knoll and searched again. All around stretched the
prairie--bare, still, hopeless. Then they looked at each other for the
first time. Ben began to whimper.
"Come, brace up," said John, taking the elder brother's part. "I know
the trail; we'll catch up to them in no time."
His tone was cheerful, but he appeared more at ease than he really was.
It was not a pleasant situation for even a full-grown man, one well
versed in the signs of the plains, its landmarks, and deceptions.
[Illustration: THE TAIL OF THE COOK'S WAGON WAS LET DOWN.
(_Page 276._)]
The boys were in an unfamiliar section of the country, without food or
means of transportation, at nightfall. Their lessons of self-reliance
stood them in good stead now, and they started off bravely, striking
away from the river in the direction of the wagon trail. After walking a
half hour they came across the distinct deep rut of wagons.
This was a great encouragement; it was like a friendly grasp of the
hand, for they felt that they were now in touch with men and living
things, though neither was within sight or sound.
Only the palest kind of twilight now remained, but the trail could be
seen quite distinctly and both boys took heart.
"I'd give my gun for a piece of jerked buffalo meat," said Ben.
"Well, I wouldn't mind munching a bean myself," replied his brother.
"But say, won't that feed taste good when we get to the camp? Just think
of that big fire with the men lying around it, and the wagons drawn in a
circle outside all."
"Oh, stop," broke in Ben, peevishly. "I'm hungry enough and tired enough
already, and your talk makes me ten times worse."
Hour after hour they tramped along, their courage ebbing with every
step. Expecting when they reached the crest of each little rise to see
the bustling camp at the foot of the slope, each time they again took up
the weary march with a heavier load of disappointment and uneasiness.
Thirst, as well as hunger, now began to attack them. It was dry weather,
and the dust rose into their faces as they walked, tickling throat and
nose, and causing the greatest discomfort. From time to time they
lingered to rest, but when they stopped the darkness frightened them,
and the awful stillness, broken only by the wailing howl of a coyote and
the low moan of the rising wind, drove them on relentlessly.
At last Ben declared that he couldn't go any further, but as soon as
they stopped his courage failed him and he burst into tears. John
comforted him as well as he could, but he was himself at his wits' ends.
"Come along, old man," he urged after a while, "let's have one more try
at it."
Again they started off wearily and slowly, John with an arm about his
younger brother. They had walked only a few minutes when Ben felt his
brother's arm clasp him tighter and heard him give a hoarse shout.
He strained his eyes ahead. There in the darkness was an indistinct
moving mass. They redoubled their efforts, and presently discovered that
it was a wagon drawn by a single team that seemed hardly able to stand
and moved forward at a snail's pace.
"Did you see anything of a freight outfit along the trail to-night?"
said John huskily to the driver.
The man half raised himself from his lounging position. "Freight
outfit?" said he, sleepily. "No."
Then he woke up a little more as Ben broke into tears again. Perceiving
their woebegone appearance, he sat erect, and for the first time took in
the situation. "Why, what are you kids doin' here this time of night?
Where's your horses? Where's your people?"
John told the story in a few words, while Ben, quite overcome, leaned
his head against his brother's arm and went fast asleep standing up.
"And haven't you had anything to eat since noon?" queried the driver in
wonder.
"No, nor nothing to drink," answered John, his voice shaking a little in
spite of himself at the remembrance.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't help you much. I haven't got a
bit of grub myself. Thought I would only be out a little while, and
expected to reach the rest of my outfit by dinner time, so I didn't
bring any feed myself. One of my nags gave out, so I couldn't catch the
teams. I guess I can give you a little lift, anyhow. But see here!" he
ejaculated, "I guess you're on the wrong trail, ain't you? Your folks
must have took the other branch way back yonder; they wouldn't be likely
to come over this side."
Brave John collapsed at this. He and Ben had been travelling all this
weary time in the wrong direction!
"Never you mind, sonny," said the man, kindly. "We'll find some way out
of it," he went on after a minute's silence; "those trails join again
after a piece. Perhaps you may meet your outfit there. This branch
follows a bend in the river, while the other cuts across country and
meets it. See?"
"Yes, sir," said John, dejectedly.
"Come, help me get this team of mine started; you'll be sure to find
your outfit camped near the fork; there's good water there and they'll
wait for you."
Encouraged once more by his words, John lifted Ben bodily and laid him
in the wagon. Then, after a good deal of urging with voice and whip, he
got the worn-out team in motion.
For half an hour they moved along without a word being spoken; their
new friend relapsed into his huddled-up position, Ben lay asleep in the
bottom of the wagon, and John communed with himself. He wondered what
his mother thought of their absence, and he felt the responsibility of
an elder brother. He knew that the horses would turn up riderless, and
that his father would send back over the trail that had been covered by
the train, but would not find them. The thought of their anxiety made
him doubly impatient at the slow progress made. He longed for Baldy to
gallop on and set their minds at rest. Still, they moved along at a pace
little faster than a walk. Each step of the weary beasts seemed as if it
must be the last.
At length John, who was the only person awake, noticed that the off
horse began to sway as he stumbled along. He roused the man at his side
and told him he thought the animal was about done for. But the words of
warning were hardly out of his mouth when the poor beast dropped like a
lump, made a few fruitless attempts to regain his feet, and then lay
quiet.
Here was a pretty mess for all hands!
The man, with one fagged horse and one almost as bad, ten miles from
camp, with no food or water, on a trail over which hardly any one
passed.
The boys, footsore from the long tramp, with a gnawing hunger and
parching thirst and nothing to satisfy either, their destination they
knew not how far off, and no means of reaching it other than afoot.
There was but one thing to do: set out once more and trust to Providence
that the camp would be found at the junction of the two trails and that
their strength would hold out long enough to accomplish the journey.
John promised to send some one back with horses and food, if the
stranger did not turn up within a reasonable time, and the youngsters
then resumed their weary march, John almost carrying his brother.
The moon had come out and showed the boys the deeply marked road. They
had but to follow the track, so it became simply a question of endurance
and pluck. The simple, hardy life they had always led, and the constant
exposure to heat and cold had toughened their little bodies and had
given them a reserve fund of strength which now responded to the call
upon their utmost powers. Strained as every faculty was, they plodded on
doggedly, hour after hour. Just after midnight they topped a little
rise, and involuntarily cried out in unison. There ahead of them was a
blaze that gave them new life. They had reached the junction of the two
trails, and the camp. The wagons were drawn in a circle just as they had
pictured to themselves, the camp fire was burning brightly in a shallow
pit (to prevent its spread to the surrounding prairie) and some of the
men, wrapped in their blankets, were lying like long, bumpy bundles on
the ground, while a bunch of mules were feeding at a little distance,
guarded by the "night wrangler."
In the centre of the enclosure, where the ruddy light of the campfire
brought out their anxious faces in strong relief, stood the boys' father
and mother. John and Ben ran forward as fast as their tired legs could
carry them. They shouted--as loud as their dry, dust-coated throats
would allow.
It made them gulp simultaneously to see how the expression of the two
faces changed; the woman's growing wholly tender and joyful, the man's
altered to that of relief rather than joy. John knew from past
experience that while the mother would be glad to comfort and caress,
the father would not permit any such soft treatment. They would be lucky
if they got off with a sharp rebuke.
Mrs. Worth rushed to meet them, but her husband restrained her. "You
boys go over to the cook-wagon and get something to eat, then turn in.
We've got to get off soon after daybreak. I'll see what you have to say
for yourselves to-morrow."
The cold supper John and Ben indulged in that night would probably not
interest the ordinary pet dog of your acquaintance. It consisted of
cold, greasy pork and beans, poor cold coffee without milk, and soggy
bread, but they thought it was food fit for the gods. Hunger satisfied
and thirst quenched, they were glad enough to curl under a wagon, a
blanket their only covering and a saddle for a pillow.
Before getting to sleep they heard the teamster who had befriended them
come into camp; his team had revived enough to painfully cover the
remaining distance to the Worths' outfit.
They had hardly dozed off, it seemed to them, when they heard the cook's
shrill call, "Grub p-i-i-i-le," and knew that breakfast was ready and
all hands must be astir.
After the blankets had been made into a neat roll and put away in a
wagon, breakfast was despatched promptly, for cook, even on the
frontier, is an autocratic person, not to be kept waiting.
The meal was much like the supper of the previous night, except that the
food was hot. The boys then went down to the creek and soaked off the
dust that had gathered during their long tramp. In an incredibly short
time the train had broken camp and was on the move again. The cook's few
dishes and pots were given a hasty rinse in the creek and packed, the
mules and horses driven in, and the fresh ones harnessed and saddled.
The "day wrangler" took the place of the "night wrangler," who promptly
lay down in one of the wagons and went to sleep.
The procession fairly moving, John and his brother were called up to
explain their absence of the afternoon and night before. This John did
with fear and trembling, for he feared his father's wrath. He got off,
however, with a severe reprimand and positive orders not to go out of
sight of the wagons at any time, and the boys went off congratulating
themselves on their lucky escape.
All that day the caravan travelled steadily, stopping only at noon for
dinner and for water. Towards evening they came near their destination,
reaching a clear creek bordered with green. Up from the stream rose a
hill, and half way up was a strange-looking house, part of which seemed
to be buried in the side of the slope.
The boys were somewhat surprised when they were told that this was to be
their home for the winter.
"Look, John," exclaimed Ben, "we're going to live in a hole in the
ground."
CHAPTER V.
IN A MINING CAMP.
"More like a tunnel with a porch to it, I should say," said John, as
they approached the "dug-out."
Indeed, the Worths' new home was an unprepossessing abode even after the
familiar furniture was in position, the bunks made ready for use, and a
fire built in the fireplace.
As its name showed, it was merely a hole or tunnel in the slope of the
hill, with a small log house built out from it. But though it was not
luxurious, it was warm in winter and cool in summer, the earth
protecting it from extremes of both heat and cold. The bare ground
packed hard served for a floor, and the fireplace was set far back in
the underground portion of the room, its smoke outlet being a chimney of
sod projecting through the roof.
Into this new and strange dwelling the household goods were carried, a
fire was built, and in a short while the place began to assume the
appearance of a home. While this was being done, the men looked up their
own habitations, and found that other dug-outs, not so large or well
finished, but fairly comfortable, were all ready for occupancy. The mine
had been opened already, and the workmen had previously constructed
these huts, half caves, half houses, for themselves and for the "boss's"
family.
It was all a new experience for the boys, and they investigated
everything with great interest. The idea of living in a hole in the
ground struck them for quite a while as very funny, and they made jokes
without end about it to each other.
The wagons had been placed in the wide creek "bottom"--the space cut out
of the bank by the current, which had since retreated to its present
narrower channel. This "bottom," for years and years the stream's bed,
was well supplied with rich alluvial soil, and was in consequence
luxuriantly covered with fresh grass and vegetation of all kinds.
"I tell you, Jack," called Ben, when the boys scrambled down the steep
path to the creek, "this is something like. Why, I can see bottom--and I
declare, if I didn't see a fish sneak out of that rooty place there."
He hopped on one foot and then on the other in his excitement, and
then, somehow--neither he nor John could ever explain it--he suddenly
found himself splashing in the clear stream. John caught hold of his
heels and dragged him out face down. His head had scraped the soft
bottom and his nose had made a beautiful furrow in the mud.
"What were you trying to do?" inquired John, as soon as he could get his
breath. "Catch the fish in your mouth?"
When Ben turned, spitting mud and digging it out of his nostrils, John
almost exploded with laughter. "Maybe you think it's funny," spurted the
younger boy, "but wait till you come to make a mud scow of yourself;
then you won't laugh quite so much."
John struggled to suppress his mirth, and after a while succeeded--as
long as his brother's mud-be-plastered visage was not in sight.
[Illustration: Instantaneous sketches of the positions in slipping and
diving.]
Face washed and good humor restored, the boys wandered further down the
stream on a trip of discovery. New delights opened at every turn. A mile
or so below the camp a beaver dam was found, and as they drew near, one
of those clever, industrious little beasts shot down the slide they had
constructed, with a _kerflop_ into the pool. Here was sport indeed. The
boys wondered how many of the curious animals the brown, mud-plastered,
dome-shaped houses contained. The doors to these houses were under
water, and only the second story was above its level.
"I tell you what," said John, "we'll have to catch some of those
beggars. Their skins are worth money." And so they vowed to remember the
spot and capture some of the inhabitants of this semi-submarine village.
A little further along they came to a clearly marked path, the edge of
which (the centre was beaten hard) was indented with small hoof prints
of deer and antelope. They saw, too, the cushioned print of the great
prairie wolf. Evidently this was the haunt of game of all kinds.
On the way back the boys had little leisure to examine the paradise they
had discovered, for the sun was sinking fast and they had wandered
further than they realized. An inviting pool was noted, however, that
would serve for a swimming hole, and Ben unhesitatingly dubbed this
"plumb bully." John prevented him from plunging into it right away only
by main force and the reference to his ducking, but he could not keep
him from taking off his moccasins and wading in whenever an opportunity
occurred.
As they neared the camp the last rays of the sun glinted down on them.
The preparations for the evening meal were in full swing: the clatter
of tin dishes mingled with the clatter of tongues, and the smoke pouring
from the sod chimneys bore a most savory odor that made the boys realize
they were hungry.
"I wish we had a rifle," John was saying. "We could have got one of
those ducks we saw down the creek for supper."
"Well, I'm going to have one, and a repeater, too," returned Ben. "I'll
have one if I----"
"Look out!" yelled his brother, interrupting him. At the same moment he
jumped to his side and pulled him violently back. Ben almost fell, but
his brother held him up and dragged him still further.
"Look!" he said, breathless with excitement.
Ben's eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger. There in the
trail on which they had been walking, on the exact spot where he had
been about to plant his bare foot, lay a big diamond-backed rattler,
asleep in the last rays of the setting sun.
"Phew! that was a close call," exclaimed John. "You want to keep a sharp
lookout when you go barefoot. I can't watch out for you all the time."
The younger boy, pretty badly scared, put on his moccasins without delay
and kept his eyes on the trail after that. The rest of the way was
covered in almost absolute silence, for the escape had been a narrow
one, and both were sobered by it.
The plain, wholesome supper over, the boys were glad enough to turn in,
and though the bunks were anything but soft and the surroundings
unfamiliar, the exertions of the day before and the hardships of the
night preceding it put them to sleep in short order.
It was not long before the whole camp was wrapped in slumber. The stock
had been allowed to run free, it being well known that they would not
stray far from the good feed that the creek bottom afforded. All was
silent without and only the heavy breathing of the sleepers disturbed
the quiet within. "Spuds," the dog, from time to time growled and barked
inwardly as he dreamed of a fierce chase after a gopher or jack rabbit.
At last even he subsided.
This absolute quiet was presently disturbed by a howl,--long, wailing,
and dreadful,--that sounded through the low roof as if the thing that
caused it must be in the room itself. Ben jumped up so suddenly that he
struck his head on his brother's bunk above him.
"What's that?" he cried, shaking with fear at a sound he could not
explain. John, his head stuck out of the berth above, was frightened
himself, and could not explain the noise.
Again the fearful wail came, this time not so distinct, but quite as
awe-inspiring. The boys drew a long breath of relief when their father
got up, took the rifle from the two pegs that supported it, and went to
the door. His evident calmness reassured them. As he reached the door
and fumbled with the latch, John and Ben heard a soft but rapid patter
of feet and then his muttered exclamation:
"Plague take those pesky wolves, howling at a man's door in the dead of
night."
So the boys made acquaintance with the great, gray prairie wolf at close
quarters the first night of their stay afar from civilization.
In a few days the men were in full swing at the work for which they had
come to this point. The boys were too young to take part in the mining
operations, but even they had their chores to perform at certain times
of the day, after which they were at liberty to do much as they pleased,
within certain well-known limits. Their first duty on being wakened
between four and five was to round up the stock and drive it in. This
was not such easy work as it sounds. The journey in search of the
animals was long, and was made on an empty stomach in the cold, raw
morning air. Even when they were found, it was difficult to get them
moving towards the camp. The animals seemed at times to be endowed with
diabolical perversity, and would resist all efforts to start them
running in the right direction. The mules and horses once corraled, the
boys had an appetite for breakfast that a dyspeptic would give a fortune
to acquire. After that hearty meal the brothers supplied the camp with
wood and water and did what odd jobs were required about the home. This
completed their work for the time.
After these duties were performed one morning, John and Ben bethought
them of the beaver village, and their spirits rose in anticipation of
the sport. A full trapper's outfit had been brought to the camp. They
got this out and made up a pack containing several steel traps (having
strong jaws armed with sharp teeth and set off by pressure of the
animal's foot on the trigger plate), an axe, some fishing line and
tackle in case a good pool was encountered, the always present revolvers
and ammunition, and a small store of food.
Though it was their first experience in trapping beaver, the boys were
well versed in the theory of the business; they had never let an
opportunity go by to learn all they could about such sport. So they
started with a fair knowledge at least of the habits and ways of the
beaver whom they were to outwit. Their journey down to the dam led them
along the creek, and they noted several inviting pools where bullheads
and trout were likely to lurk, planning to come back and try to catch a
string after they had set their traps.
Reaching the dam, they set to work. John being the elder, at once took
command of the expedition. "You chop down some brush," he ordered,
"while I go over and punch a few holes in the dam. These little beggars
know a thing or two and won't run into an uncovered trap."
"What do you want to cut down brush for?" questioned Ben, as he
shouldered the axe and prepared to obey.
"Why, you see, when I break the dam the water will rush out and show up
the entrance to the houses; then after we go away the beaver will get to
work to build it up again, and will go for the brush you have chopped
down and get caught in the traps we will set in it. See?"
Ben's eyes danced at the prospect, and he raced off to do his part.
The boys were soon out of sight of each other, and John busied himself
on the top of the dam with a strong stick, poking holes ruthlessly
through it. He found it firmer than he had expected, and it took all
his strength and skill to tear it open. He pushed his stick in
vertically, in order to get a good purchase, and, encountering an
unexpected obstacle, put his whole weight into the thrust. All of a
sudden the obstruction gave away, the stick sank down till his hands
struck the ground, he lost his balance and fell headlong into the deep
part of the stream.
The water was well over his head, and after a few minutes' struggling,
he began to realize that he was in a nasty situation. The dam was
composed mostly of slippery mud, which gave him no hold, and burdened by
his soaked clothing, he could not swim to the bank. The water was icy
cold, and he felt almost numb at once. He called to Ben, but could not
make him hear. Then he sank beneath the surface.
Again he went down, but he kept his presence of mind and struggled with
might and main to gain a foothold on the slimy slope. In spite of his
efforts to keep on top, he sank a third time, but this time barely below
the level of his eyes. His work on the dam had accomplished its purpose
and the water was rushing out through a leak, so that the depth was
decreasing every minute. He realized that if he could keep up a little
longer he would be all right.
Again he sank, too tired to do more, but this time was able to keep his
mouth above water by standing on tiptoe and stretching his neck to its
fullest extent.
Before long the water had receded so much that he could wade ashore,
though at times his feet slipped into holes that let him down until he
was entirely under water. Reaching the bank, he dragged himself up and
lay down flat, for the time quite exhausted.
He was more breathless than hurt, however, and in a short time was able
to get up and crawl over to a sunny spot.
Ben came up presently and was inclined to joke with his brother on his
mishap; but after John had told his story he took it more seriously.
The boys noted with satisfaction that the water was now so low that the
submerged entrances to the beaver houses were visible. They therefore
hastened to place their traps in the brush that Ben had cut. They then
moved up the creek to the fishing hole they had noted, to await
developments and at the same time try their luck at fishing. Ben took
the line while John stripped off his water-soaked clothes, hung them up
to dry, and then lay down in a warm sunny spot. It was late in the fall,
and the wind proved too searching for comfort in this condition, so a
fire was built, by which he dried and warmed himself.
The fish were hungry and bit early and often, with the result that the
pile of bullheads and trout on the bank was soon a goodly sight to
behold. A few of them John cleaned and hung over the fire with a forked
stick. The meal which followed was enjoyed to the full, and by the time
it was finished John's wet clothes were fairly dry. Ben was for looking
after the traps right away, but his brother's more experienced counsel
prevailed, and they agreed to visit them at the earliest opportunity the
following morning.
The first minute after the next morning's work was finished they hurried
to the scene of John's accident. After considerable searching (for they
had neglected to chain the traps fast to a log) they found one. In it
was a beaver's foot, well provided with claws for digging, and gnawed
off clean above the joint. The brave little beast had cut off his own
leg to save his life.
[Illustration: Beaver Chip.]
"Well, I'm jiggered," said Ben. "If that don't beat all. Don't you wish
you had come back when I wanted you to?"
"No; the beaver didn't show up till after dark, probably. Besides, there
are three other traps, and there must be something in 'em or they would
be where we left 'em."
They searched and searched and called each other names because of their
carelessness in not making the traps fast. Finally they bethought them
of the possibility of the little animals' dragging the cruel steel jaws
with them to their houses, which, instinct would teach them, were their
only safe refuges.
Sure enough, there were two of them dead, drowned at their own door; the
third was alive and full of energy. Timid usually, the beaver when
caught or brought to bay will fight courageously. Ben stooped to drag
the trap and its captive out, but drew back so suddenly that his head
struck John, who was also leaning over, a scientific blow on the nose.
That maltreated and indignant organ began to bleed freely, and it did
not console John to any great degree to learn that the little beast had
turned on Ben and that he had come within an ace of having a finger
bitten off by its long yellow teeth. He was so alarmed at this savage
pugnacity that, without paying any attention to the rap he had given
John, he still retreated, keeping his eyes on the hole. This was
needless, however, for the animal was hopelessly entangled. A shot from
John's revolver soon put the little creature out of its misery and
enabled them to drag it out without danger.
They returned to camp, triumphantly bearing three splendid beavers. But
John held his hand over his swelling nose and fast blackening eyes: he
could afford to accept with equanimity all taunting references to his
injured member, such as, "Your nose is out of joint," and "What a black
look you have," for he had turned the tables on Ted, who had laughed at
him, calling out: "Sonny, you think you're going on a beaver hunt, but
you're really going on a wild goose chase."
Many more trips did the two boys make to this and other beaver villages,
and the pile of salted skins grew to quite respectable proportions by
the time the ice began to form on the creek.
With winter came many added pleasures and some extra work and
discomfort. Paths to the mine and to water had to be dug in the early
morning through the snow that had drifted during the night, and this
work was added to the boys' regular tasks. The drawing of water had now
become more difficult, for a hole had to be cut in the ice every time.
Gathering wood, too, was not easy, since it was necessary to burrow for
it through the white blanket of snow.
[Illustration: THE RIFLE RESTED CLOSELY AGAINST HIS CHEEK. (_Page 99._)]
[Illustration: BEN WENT OVER TO WHERE THE GAME LAY. (_Page 100._)]
One of the men of the camp was a Swede called "Yumping Yim," because of
his racial inability to pronounce the letter "J." He showed the boys how
to make snowshoes or skees, long strips of wood curved up at the front,
the bottom slightly concave to give a purchase on the crust and prevent
them from slipping sideways, the top convex and rising slightly from toe
and heel to the centre where the foot rested. The boys soon became
proficient in the use of these and sometimes travelled considerable
distances on them.
Exhilarating trips they were, over the crusted snow, when swift,
breathless slides were taken down the hills, and skimming jumps from one
level to another. It was on one of these trips that John and Ben saw for
the first time a herd of buffalo, their great, brown, closely-packed
bodies looking like an undulating sea of fresh earth against the
whiteness of the snow. With them were large numbers of antelope, these
weaker animals profiting by the ability of the powerful buffalo to break
into the drifts and uncover the scanty herbage.
The boys skimmed back to camp, and soon all the men formed themselves
into a hunting party. Luck was with them. The whole party crept softly
up, using every bit of cover that could be found. Then there was a
whispered consultation, rifles were levelled, Mr. Worth kicked a lump of
snow as a signal, and five guns barked out together. John and Ben dashed
forward in wild excitement to find three antelopes lying dead. Without
stopping, the hunters pressed on after the flying animals, and by
nightfall a row of antelope hung high up against the log portion of the
dug-out. Since the boys had no rifles of their own and the family
Winchester was in use, they had to be content with long shots with
revolvers.
During the excitement following one of the volleys, Ben, who had
lingered behind, saw what he thought was a wounded animal. He quickly
raised his pistol and fired. As he did so, the figure rose and stood
upright. It was Charley Green! His winter clothing, like that of the
boys, was made of deerskin, his cap of the pelt of the musk-rat--even
his hands and feet were covered with deerskin soled with buffalo hide.
The deception had been complete, all too complete, Charley thought, when
he heard what a narrow escape he had had. Ben shivered when he realized
what might have happened, and registered a mental vow to let any future
deer get away rather than run the risk of its being deer only in hide
and man beneath.
The boys had learned to cut out and make their own winter deer-hide
clothing, caps, shirts, mittens, and "packs," or boots, soled with
buffalo hide, hair side in; so they always had plenty to do when
indoors. Most of the days were spent on their skees. They learned many
new things and many ways of getting along under their new conditions.
For instance, a snow house had been dug in a big drift which extended
out over the ice-covered creek, and a fire was built inside which
speedily melted a hole through to the water. It was so much warmer under
the blanket of snow that this did not freeze over. Through it the boys
drew the supply of water and caught many a fine string of fish.
The long winter evenings were spent around the big fireplace, where the
men made or patched clothes, told stories, played cards, and smoked. The
camp was cut off from the world by the miles and miles of deep white
snow which overspread the land in every direction. There was no danger
from Indians, for even they could not move under difficulties so
insurmountable. Wolves nightly came down from the hills and left their
footprints on the snow about the house, and especially under the row of
frozen deer which swung from a high support--the winter supply of meat
killed after freezing weather set in. Both night and day the coyotes
howled and answered each other from the high points round about, with
their wuh, wuh, wuh-aou-u-u-u-u-wuh-wuh. On moonlight nights the scene
from the front door was entrancing. The wide, white valley stretched up
and down as far as the eye could see, and the reaching white ridges of
snow and utter silence suggested illimitable distance. When the wind
blew, the fine snow slid along the encrusted surface, making a noise
like hissing water on a pebbly beach, while the finer particles, rising
in the air, created lunar rainbows of surpassing beauty. Here indeed was
loneliness, loveliness, and solemn immensity.
[Illustration: Snap shots.]
CHAPTER VI.
A SNOWSHOE RACE.
"I tell you what," said Ben, one day when the boys were off on their
skees, "if we only had a sled, what fun we'd have down these hills!"
"Well, what's the matter with making one?" answered John, the
ever-ready. "It would be great; this crust is smooth as glass; we'd just
fly."
At once they turned in their tracks and sped for home to carry out their
plan.
"I'll beat you in," said Ben.
"I'll bet you won't."
They started off evenly at the top of a slope. A few long,
half-stepping, half-sliding strokes gave them impetus enough to slide.
Both crouched now in order to lessen the wind resistance and to avoid
the chance of losing their balance. They were very evenly matched; for
while John was the stronger, his brother was light and not so apt to
break through the crust. Down they rushed with ever-increasing speed,
the particles of snow rising like spray before them. The swishing,
crunching noise grew into a hum as they sped faster and faster. At first
Ben forged ahead--he had got a better start--then John's weight began to
tell and he gained inch by inch. Ben crouched down still lower, making
his body in a compact little ball, but in spite of all he could do his
brother gained on him. Now he was even, now a little ahead, and now only
his back could be seen by the younger. The end of his scarf was standing
out behind him like a painted stick. The distance gradually increased
until perhaps twenty yards of glistening snow lay between them. Ben was
watching intently for any slight grade of which he might take advantage.
All at once he noticed that John had disappeared.
Almost at the same moment he too began to drop. The racers had been
watching each other so closely that neither had noticed that they were
approaching the edge of a great drift. John had sailed over first and
landed right side up some eight feet below, but so solidly that he broke
through the crust and stopped short, falling forward on his face. The
instant of warning that Ben had, had put him on his guard: he landed
lightly and sped on, hardly checked.
"You will beat me, eh!" he shouted derisively to his discomfited
brother, as he shot past.
John scrambled up and started again, but the incline was now very short,
and by the time he reached the level Ben was far in advance and going
well. It was a long, stern chase. However, the older boy's strength and
weight were great advantages now, and within half a mile the two were on
even terms again. For a time they raced side by side, arms swinging in
unison, legs going like piston rods. Their feet were kept absolutely
straight, and so the long skates ran exactly parallel, for if either
foot should be turned in or out ever so lightly, one skate would cross
the other and the skater would be tangled up so quickly that he would
not know what was the matter.
The brothers were now sliding along side by side, each straining every
nerve to pass the other; breath came in short puffs and showed on the
frosty air like the exhaust steam of a locomotive; perspiration began to
appear, and the effort they were putting forth was evidenced in the
strained look on their faces.
Faster and faster they went, skimming along the level like a pair of
swallows. They were going too fast to be careful of their steps, and Ben
turned his right foot a little in. Instantly the skates crossed in
front, tripped him, and down he went head foremost into the snow. His
left skee slipped off, flew towards John, caught between his legs, and
threw him over backwards. For a moment there was the utmost confusion.
The boys were stretched out, heads almost buried in the snow, feet
kicking wildly, and the long skees beating the air like flails. Finally
these were kicked off, and the crestfallen racers managed to get right
side up. After much floundering they got their skees on again and
continued their journey, this time at a more deliberate pace. They
disputed all the way home as to which was the faster, and finally agreed
that the momentous question could only be settled satisfactorily by
another match.
When they reached camp, a couple of boards, a saw, a hatchet, and some
nails were secured. They sawed and chopped out the sides, nailed on a
couple of cross pieces for the seat and a diagonal strip to brace the
whole thing. This much was easy, but both were at a loss to find
anything for runners until Ben remembered that strips of flat steel had
been used on some of the canned meat boxes. These were stripped off,
hammered flat, and nailed at each end to the sides of what really began
to look like a conventional sled; the seat board was fastened on and
holes were bored for the leading rope.
The boys looked at their handiwork with no little pride and pronounced
it as fine a cutter as the eastern variety. To be sure it was not
beautiful to look at, and did not bear any highly nourished name like
"Flyaway" or "P. D. Q.," but it did not lack decoration altogether, for
on one side was branded "Use Higgins' Soap," while the other
commemorated "Ruby Brand Tomatoes."
In spite of its roughness and clumsiness it was possessed of good speed
and strength enough to withstand all the ill-usage the boys gave it.
When the snow was soft they used broad runners made of barrel staves,
which they made fast to each side, and thus turned their sled into a
toboggan.
If John and Ben wanted anything; they had to make it or earn enough to
buy it--money was not so plentiful that it could be spent on toys and
mere amusements, and so they frequently had to devise ways of getting
the things they longed for. John had made up his mind that he must have
a saddle, bridle, spurs, and quirt (a short, flexible, braided whip) of
his own; and when he found that none of these things would be given him,
he determined to earn enough money to buy them. Ben, too, had set his
heart on owning a repeating rifle (a style of arm that was rather rare
in those days) and so the brothers agreed to work together at trapping,
mining, or turning a penny in any way that offered. The sum total was
to be divided in the spring, when each would buy the long-desired
articles.
As spring drew near, Mr. Worth decided to move along and open another
mine to the westward, the first one being now in good working order.
Again the family packed up their household goods, abandoned the dug-out
that had sheltered them during the long winter months, and started off
on a pilgrimage. The spring was well advanced and the verdure of the
prairie was in its prime. Wild flowers were plentiful and the air was
filled with the melody of the song birds, that of the meadow lark being
sweetest and most sustained. Robins, thrushes, plover, and curlews--all
did their share to make spring beautiful.
Many prairie-dog villages were passed. The queer little beasts sat on
the mounds of earth beside the holes that served for homes, their
curiosity drawing them out. The travellers took snap shots at them, but
they were as quick as lightning and never stayed above ground long
enough to allow of careful aim.
John's industry had made him the proud possessor of a new saddle, whose
creaking was music in his ears, and even old Baldy seemed to be pleased
with his finery, for he pranced around like a two-year-old and arched
his neck in a way that seemed to say, "I'm about the finest thing a-top
of this earth." Ben had achieved his aim also, and was the owner of a
brand-new repeating Spencer rifle, the result of the sale of the
winter's catch.
As the train went further westward the trail grew more and more
indistinct, and it became the duty of the boys to go ahead and trace it
out. Later, when even the barely discernible wheel tracks had
disappeared, it was necessary for them to pick out the best route and
also to find the camp sites.
This duty was a delightful one, for new country was continually opening
before them, and adventures of all kinds might offer at any moment.
"Ain't those antelopes over there by that little hill?" said John one
day, pointing to one side.
"That's right," answered Ben. "What's the matter with chasing them?" He
spoke with the authority of the hunter. Possessing the rifle, no
opportunity to exploit it was ever allowed to slip; nor, if the truth be
told, was John slow in calling attention to his saddle, spurs, and
fringed leather chaps.
"All right," said John. "We've never been on an antelope hunt alone."
The boys went off at right angles from the direction they had been
taking and rode down a shallow ravine or coulie in order to keep out of
sight of the game. They rode slowly along till they reached the end of
the depression; here they dismounted and each tied the forelegs of his
horse with the rope he carried on his saddle-horn: they were not going
to travel afoot again if they could help it. It was now necessary to
cross the open prairie in plain view of the animals they sought.
Advantage was taken of a well-known characteristic of antelopes--their
curiosity. John pulled the handkerchief from his neck and began to wave
it slowly to and fro over his head as he walked. Ben followed in his
brother's tracks, making himself as inconspicuous as possible and
fingering the lock of his repeater to be sure that it was in good
working order.
The boys drew nearer and nearer, and the flagging was kept up
persistently; but it did not seem to have any effect, for the animals
were all looking the other way. Still they drew nearer; their eyes were
fixed on their quarry, the rifle held ready, every nerve tense, each
heart beating furiously with excitement.
[Illustration: ROPING AN UNBROKEN HORSE.]
Then it was seen that the antelopes were attracted by the white tops of
the wagons, which were moving slowly along over the plain. The wagon
train was "flagging" them. Now if the hunters could get within range
before the spell of curiosity had been satisfied, all would be well.
The boys moved cautiously along till they came to a sunken "buffalo
wallow," a muddy place frequented by the bison for the sake of the
moisture. This afforded the shelter that was needed. Attracted by the
flapping canvas wagon-tops, the unsuspecting animals drew slowly near
the hiding place.
"Oh! if they would only come just a little closer," said Ben under his
breath, "I'd have them sure."
Once they stopped and sniffed the air, but just as Ben was about to
chance a long-distance shot, they moved on again.
"Now, Ben!" said John, excitedly.
For an instant the stock of the rifle rested closely against the boy's
cheek--then the shot rang out. Almost simultaneously the biggest of the
herd leaped into the air, then fell flat to the ground. The others stood
still, bewildered.
"Good! Now for another one," whispered John. Again the rifle was raised
and again its deadly crack sounded forth. Another antelope bounded up,
ran frantically a few yards, and dropped. At this the rest of the herd
made off like the wind, and in a few minutes were mere specks on the
horizon.
"Well, I must say," said Ben, exultingly, "I thought once that I would
rather have your saddle and outfit, but now--" he slapped the stock of
his rifle affectionately--"I wouldn't swap if you gave me Baldy to
boot."
"Baldy to boot, eh? Why, I wouldn't swap that horse for a whole stack of
rifles." And John moved off in indignation to get the horses, while Ben
went over to the spot where the game lay.
The carcasses were packed on Ben's horse, both boys mounting Baldy. They
were welcomed heartily at the camp, for fresh meat was at a premium, and
any change of diet was an event of prime importance.
"That gun of yours must be chained lightning," said Ted. "I didn't
suppose you could hit the side of a hill at fifty yards."
Many days of travelling followed over country that had apparently never
been covered by a wagon before.
During this long journey the boys came to know the men of the party very
well. They were apt to be sharply divided into good and bad, for in
those rough times people showed their real characters without reserve.
Charley Green still continued with the company, and he was the boys'
greatest friend; but Tom Malloy, who joined the expedition just before
it started out for the new camp, soon got into John's good graces. He
was a man of varied talents: a gambler and saloon keeper when times were
good; a miner, cow-puncher, or hunter when his money ran out. Rough,
quick-tempered, and as ready with his fists as with his "gun," he was
nevertheless possessed of a great heart and a loyalty to his friends
that nothing could shake. Like many of his race he loved a fight and
delighted to have a lively "argument" with a man. John's boldness and
aggressiveness pleased him greatly, and he looked the boy over,
enumerating his good points over to himself: his broad chest, sturdy
legs and arms, his clear eyes and fearless look all showed to Malloy's
experienced eye that he would make a first-rate boxer.
"I'll show that youngster how to put up his hands sure," he said to
himself.
It was a tiresome journey, long and monotonous, but enlivened now and
then by a hunt or an excursion. The train was to go by way of the Hart
River road, and it seemed to the younger members of the expedition as if
it would never be reached. But find it at last they did, a few wagon
ruts not very clear nor strongly marked.
The boys' task was now much easier, for the way was marked plainly
before them and it was comparatively smooth travelling. Many wide
excursions were made on either side of the trail, and many hunting
expeditions were indulged in. Ben became a very good shot, and the
constant supply of fresh meat gave evidence of his skill.
After many days' journey the "Bad Lands" were reached. That desolate
country, scarred and pitted, was void of vegetation except on the
bottoms and near the infrequent water courses. Here the wagon road
disappeared altogether, and the pioneers found it necessary in many
cases practically to build one, to level some places and make inclines
down steep banks at others. Often all the teams had to be hitched to one
wagon in order to drag it up a sharp ascent or through a miry place.
In many spots the ground was very treacherous, especially at the edge of
a cut. The soil was loose, pliable stuff, liable to give way under the
weight of a horse. Badger and gopher holes added to the danger by
undermining the banks in unexpected places.
One morning John was sent out on Baldy (his constant companion and
faithful friend) to pick out, if possible, an easier way. Boy and horse
started out on a smart trot, each having full confidence in the
other--as was necessary, for almost as much depended on the sagacity of
the steed in the matter of picking a way on dangerous ground as in the
intelligence of the rider. It was a task of considerable responsibility
that was put on John's shoulders; the route was difficult enough to
puzzle a professional civil engineer. Baldy was left to find his own way
while his rider looked ahead to choose a road that could be travelled by
the wagons. From time to time it became necessary to go down the almost
perpendicular side of a coulie, when the horse would hunch his
hind-legs, keeping his forelegs stiff and stretched out to their fullest
extent. Then he would fairly slide down on his tail.
John had found a place that he thought suitable for the night's camp,
had traced out a way by which it might be reached, and had turned his
pony back towards the wagons.
He thought to himself, as they slid down one bank and scrambled up the
other, that it would be a bad place to be thrown. The surface was
pitted with half-concealed badger holes, and in the bottoms were many
spots where a horse might easily be mired. Baldy, however, knew his
business and carried his rider over awkward places safely. John was
congratulating himself on the successful conclusion of his errand when
he came to the bank of what was in the early spring a roaring torrent,
but which now lacked even a trickle of water. To the edge of this cut
Baldy approached cautiously. John, anxious to get back to the wagons and
report, urged him on. With a shake of his head that seemed to say:
"Well, you are the boss, so here goes; but I don't like the looks of
it," the pony went forward, gathering his hind legs under him to make
his usual slide--when the ground beneath him gave way. Horse and rider
went rolling down the slope, but as John felt himself falling he
loosened his foot from the stirrup and leaped off, just in time. Boy and
steed arrived at the bottom about the same time, but separately. John's
mouth, eyes, nose, and ears were full of dirt and dried grass; in fact,
he always declared that he ate his proverbial peck of dirt then, all at
once; but he soon discovered that, barring a few bruises and a badly
hurt pride, he was all right. As soon as he got the dust out of his eyes
and realized that the earth had not risen, out of special spite against
him, he looked for his horse, and was much relieved to find that his
four-footed partner had received nothing more than a bad shaking up.
Baldy's attitude, however, was anything but dignified. His feet were
waving in air, his head was buried in the loose soil, his body was so
covered with mother earth that he seemed like some strange freak of
nature. As the boy got up, the horse looked at him, he thought,
reproachfully and seemed to say: "I told you so."
[Illustration: "CROW HAT'S FACING THIS WAY." (_Page 117._)]
[Illustration: THE INDIAN CAMP. (_Page 116._)]
"Yes, old chap," replied John aloud, "you do know a thing or two, and
I'll trust you more next time."
John never told of his mistake and tumble, but explained the dusty
appearance of himself and horse by reference to the well-known
characteristic of the "Bad Lands," its stifling alkali dust.
CHAPTER VII.
A BUFFALO HUNT.
Many weeks were spent in the migration, and it became exceedingly
monotonous and tiresome before their destination was at last sighted.
When, one beautiful afternoon, Mr. Worth pointed ahead to a rolling
knoll covered with trees and announced that there was their future home,
John and Ben set up a wild cheer and dashed ahead to examine the spot.
Camp was pitched on the banks of the Yellowstone, and dug-outs were
made--the cave part first and then the outer portion of substantial
logs. Two large cabins were constructed for the family's dwelling and
kitchen, and several more for the men, of whom there were many, this
being an important mine.
No time was lost in settling, and in an incredibly short while the
household belongings were in place, the provisions stowed away safely,
and the regular camp routine begun. It was necessary to get a
considerable portion of the tunnel driven before frost came. The
opening was made horizontally into the side of the hill and continued in
a straight line until the vein of coal was struck, when the tunnel had
to follow it in whatever direction it went.
The boys were to be initiated into real miner's work at this camp. They
were well grown, strong lads, fully able to do their share. During the
preliminary digging of the drift they did little beyond their regular
chores, except to drive the teams that carted away the earth from the
mouth of the cave.
The important duty of supplying the camp with fresh meat was also
entrusted to them, and it was not long before every haunt of furred and
feathered thing that lived within a radius of miles around was known to
them.
Within a few weeks after the establishment of the camp all preliminary
work had been completed and the mine was ready for business. To
facilitate the delivery of coal to daylight, a rough railroad had been
built; its tracks were of wood, its rolling stock one small,
four-wheeled box car, its motive power, Jerry the mule. Of this
underground railway John was installed as president, board of directors,
general manager, inspector general, passenger and freight agent, chief
engineer, and superintendent of motive power. One day he was engaged in
his many brain-taxing duties, the most trying of which was keeping the
motive power "moting." The flaring lamp in his hat showed but little of
the mule's tough hide, but that little the superintendent belabored
lustily. The little car rumbled and bumped along the rough wooden rails
on its way to one of the rooms where the coal was being dug. John
whistled cheerily to himself and occasionally interrupted the melody to
shout into the mule's wagging ears: "Git up, Jerry!" Soon a point of
yellow light appeared far off in the darkness, and as the lumbering car
went on it grew in size and strength until its nature could be made out
distinctly.
"Hello, Ben," shouted the young driver to his brother, whose cap-light
had showed so clearly up the tunnel. "You'd better oil the hinges of
that door; they squeak like a hungry rat."
The mule had stopped before a great door which blocked the way; it was
so placed as to change the ventilating current of air, and it was Ben's
duty to open and close it after each loaded or empty car. He sat in a
little recess of the wall and pulled the door open and shut with the aid
of a rope.
"It's mighty lonesome here," said he. "Seems as if I couldn't stand it
sometimes, so I brought along the 'Arabian Nights' to-day. Been reading
about Aladdin; he was underground, too, but all he had to do was to rub
a lamp and he just wallowed in pearls, diamonds, and things, while I sit
here all day for half a dollar, and do nothing but open and shut this
door for you and your old mule."
"Yes, I know all about him," answered John, as he drove through the
doorway.
"'Tisn't true, any way," shouted Ben after him. "Couldn't be. Aladdin
was a Chinaman, and no Chink ever made even a dollar a day."
"Guess you're right, but don't get lonesome," the voice came echoing
back through the darkness, mingled with the rumble of the car and the
sharp slap of the stick on poor Jerry's flank.
For a month or more John continued to drive the mule and Ben tended the
door. It was late one afternoon, and the younger boy was feeling very
tired of living away from the sun and the bright fresh air; the darkness
and dankness oppressed him not a little, so he was glad to hear John's
strong voice singing:
"Down in the coal mine,
Underneath the ground,
Digging dusky diamonds
All the year around."
"I'd sing too if I was getting a dollar 'stead of a half, and had a
chance to see daylight once in a while," grumbled Ben as his brother
stopped to talk a bit.
"Hold on a while and don't get excited," counselled the elder. "I'm
going to be promoted, and what's the matter with you moving up too?"
"Why? How?" inquired the discontented one eagerly.
"I'm going to be a regular miner; going to work with Bill Cooper, best
miner out, father says."
"Then I'll drive Jerry and gather in the dollar," cried Ben. "But who'll
tend door?"
For a minute the boy's face showed his disappointment; then he smiled
again as the thought came of a way out of the difficulty. A friendly
Indian camp was located across the river, and the boys, white and red,
often came together for all sorts of sports.
"Why not get 'Coyote-on-a-hill' to work the door while I run the car?"
said Ben exultingly. "He'd be scared to death at first, but I'll tell
him about the fifty cents a day and that will brace his nerve."
And so it turned out. The Indian boy took Ben's place, while John turned
over Jerry to his brother and cast in his fortunes with Bill Cooper.
"Coyote-on-a-hill" was pretty badly scared the first day, but Ben gave
him a word of encouragement whenever he went by, and never failed to
remind him of the money he was making, so he stuck it out like a man,
and presently got quite used to the dreary darkness.
Both of the Worth boys expressed themselves as pleased with the change;
what Jerry thought of it he never remarked.
John found his new work anything but easy. Bill Cooper was a fearless
miner and a hard worker, and his assistant had all he could do to keep
up with the task set for him. It was necessary first to cut under the
mass of coal that was to be dislodged; to do this John had to lie on his
side and so swing his pick in a cramped position. To make the vertical
cut was not much easier, for he found it hard to work squeezed in
between the walls of coal as the crevice deepened. The bottom and side
cuts made, he bored holes (round holes with a flat drill, the knack of
which he acquired only after long practice and a choice collection of
smashed fingers) and then tamped in the paper cartridge of powder. When
the fuse was in place, all that was needed to complete the work was a
light from his lamp. The former was plain, straightforward hard work,
the latter sport. The fuse lay like a snake just sliding into its hole,
the place was quiet as death and as dark as a tomb, except where the
flickering glare of the young miner's lamp shone; his face was covered
with coal dust, through which his eyes peered with unnatural prominence.
He would take the lamp from his cap, stoop down and touch the bare flame
to the end of the snake fuse; it would immediately begin to sputter
sparks, and as John drew back for safety he could watch it eat its way
towards the black wall and the powder within it. The red sparks drew
nearer and nearer the hole, then, after a spiteful little shower,
disappeared. It seemed a long time to the miner waiting behind his
protecting shield before the rending, shaking report sounded, followed
by the glare of the explosion and the rattle of the falling coal. Then
Ben soon turned up with Jerry, and both boys shovelled the loose coal of
varying-sized lumps into the car.
Bill Cooper, though insisting that John must do his share, generally
took the hardest and most dangerous places himself; so it came about one
day that the boy worked at the vertical cut while his partner cut under,
propping up the mass of coal (with wooden logs cut for the purpose) as
he went in deeper.
The work was hard, and neither man nor boy spent any breath in talking.
The dull ring of the pick was the only sound. Deeper and deeper grew
the crevice; soon only John's foot was visible and Cooper had
disappeared entirely under the overhanging ledge of coal; only the faint
glowing of the light and the sound of the tools betrayed the workmen. It
was dirty, tiring, dangerous work. At any moment that great mass of
mineral might fall if the supports were not properly placed or the
king-brace happened to be lodged in a soft spot.
"Come out if you want to save your skin, Bill," cried John suddenly. "I
hear it popping and working all around, and it's beginning to move."
"In a minute. Wait till I dig out this far corner." His voice seemed to
come from the bowels of the earth and had such an uncanny sound that
John shivered.
"Hurry! Never mind the corner--it's going to fall. Come out, quick!"
John's voice had such a note of fear and entreaty in it that the man
below was impressed.
"All right," he said, "I'll come right along."
The boy stopped working and listened. There was a peculiar sliding sound
that filled the air all about him, and from time to time a stone dropped
to the floor with an echoing rattle.
"Come out." With an appalling roar the great mass of coal came down.
John was badly squeezed, his light was extinguished, and all the breath
was knocked out of him, but he managed to work himself free and make his
way to the room. His only thought was of Bill, under that heap of coal
somewhere, and of the need of help.
He rushed along blindly through the solid darkness, his hands
outstretched before him, shouting as he went, "Help, quick!"
Some men who were working in the entry answered him.
"What's up?" they asked.
"Help! Bill lies under a whole lot of coal."
They hurried to the coal face, and John showed them where he thought the
imprisoned man lay, buried under tons of coal; the men, seizing picks,
wedges, and sledges, began working frantically to rescue their comrade.
For half an hour they toiled as they never toiled before. Then there was
a cry of horror. The body was found. The poor fellow's arms were raised
in the very act of swinging his pick, and he evidently had had an
instant and well-nigh painless death.
"Well, boys, I hope mine comes as easy as his," said old Mike McGuire,
who had witnessed many a similar scene.
They took up the body gently and tenderly laid it in the car, the mule
was unhitched, and the miners pushed it slowly to the open air, the
whole force following.
On Sunday Bill's sorrowing comrades buried him. Mr. Worth read a few
verses from the camp's only Bible, offered a short prayer, and the
simple ceremony was over.
Of Bill Cooper, like many of the men of that time, little was known, and
if any one should question as to his origin he would probably be
answered with, "Came from the East, I guess." He had made many friends,
but none felt his tragic death more than his young partner.
After this the work became irksome. John did not get along so well with
his new partner, and often when he stopped to rest the sight came before
his eyes of his dead friend as he lay under the black shroud of coal.
Nevertheless, he toiled away faithfully, and seemed in a fair way of
becoming an expert coal miner.
It was now well towards midwinter, and the boys began to long after some
skating on the clear ice which had for some time covered the river
completely. Alec was a handy blacksmith, and at their entreaties he set
to work and fashioned them two pairs of rough but very serviceable
skates. Since skating on the ice was something the boys had never
learned, they had to get Yumping Yim, the Swede, to teach them how to
use these new acquisitions. Though they were rude affairs, the boys,
whose muscles were developed by snowshoeing, soon managed to make good
headway on the river. In a sharp spin down the glassy surface after the
day's work was over they could forget that their backs ached and their
arms were heavy as lead. The brisk wind and change of exercise was like
a tonic to them, and though the air-holes in the ice made night skating
rather dangerous, it only added zest to their enjoyment.
As the boys skimmed past the Indian camp, which was a large one, they
sometimes found a whole delegation of young savages out to watch their
progress. The Indians had never seen skates before, and their wonder and
interest were great. This camp, in turn, greatly interested the white
boys; as they lay in bed they could hear the _bum-bum-bum-bum_ of the
medicine man's tom-tom come booming monotonously over the river. This
sound continued so everlastingly every night that the boys' curiosity
was aroused and they determined to see what the medicine man did besides
making such a row.
After dark one night, they stole out and over to the red men's lodges,
traced the booming noise, and finally, after great care and much
dodging--for the Indian will not tolerate any spying on or interference
with what he considers sacred--they reached the tepee from which the
sound came; then they crept round to the opening flap and John
cautiously thrust his head in, but quickly withdrew it.
"What's the matter?" whispered Ben.
"Old Crow Hat's facing this way. I was afraid he'd see us," John
answered. "Let's look under this side."
Suiting the action to the word, the boys lifted the side of the
tent-like lodge and gazed at the old medicine man. He was seated before
the fire, his tom-tom between his knees, his head bowed low, and his
long hair hanging over his face (an uncommon condition, for the red men
generally keep their hair most neatly parted). Crow Hat swayed to and
fro in time with the slow beating of his drum, and as he swung he
chanted, "_Eeyuh! Eeyuh! Eeyuh!_" raising and lowering his voice as the
tom-tom was beaten loudly or softly. Long the boys watched him,
fascinated by the weird sound. Suddenly he began to thump his drum
furiously and his voice rose from a low half-grunt to a shriek. The
"_Eeyuh! Eeyuh!_" was now like the wail of a fierce wind.
This was too much for the boys' strained nerves. They backed away
hurriedly and made for home, and it was some time before the sound of
that last frenzied cry died out of their ears.
Bill Cooper's end had a great effect on John, and he was glad of the
first opportunity to get out of the black hole and into the open air.
Indeed, both boys welcomed the work of cutting and hauling props for the
mine, which fell to them soon after their night visit to the Indians.
The elder was busily working unloading props at the mine entrance one
day when Ben came down to him excitedly: "Say, John," he cried, "a squaw
just came down from the big flat and she says she saw some buffalo over
beyond the camp. The Indians over the creek are saddling up to go for
them. Can't we go?"
"I don't know," said John, excited in turn. "You'll have to ask father.
Go on up and see him while I finish this job."
The youngster went off on the run, and in a moment returned. One look at
his face was sufficient to show John that he had the desired permission.
The mules were unhitched and turned out for the day. Baldy and Ben's
horse were quickly saddled, rifles, belts, and cartridges were slung on,
and in a twinkling the two young hunters were off after the biggest game
the country afforded.
[Illustration: THE BIGGEST GAME THE COUNTRY AFFORDED. (_Page 119._)]
[Illustration: A SQUAW . . . JUST SAW SOME BUFFALO. (_Page 118._)]
When they got to the camp they found that most of the bucks had already
started, but old "Wolf Voice," a minor chief with whom the boys had made
friends, still remained.
"There's Wolf Voice; he'll let us go with him," said John. "Hello, can
we go with you?" he shouted to the old man.
"You got good horse? Me go quick," grunted the brave.
"I guess we'll keep up," and Baldy danced as if to show his mettle. In a
few minutes they were on their way up the slope to the plateau which
surrounded the camping place. Baldy kept up easily with the Indian's
pony and Wolf Voice turned after they had covered a mile at a round
pace. "Heap good horse," said he.
"Yes," replied John. "He can beat anything around here in a half-mile
run. Want to try now?"
The temptation was great, for the pony the chief rode was his best, but
the thought of the chase restrained him. "Plenty ride soon," he said.
The level reached, the boys found that the great shaggy beasts were
already surrounded, so they took a place in the circle and waited
impatiently for a chance at the game.
With a yell the Indians rode towards the dazed animals, who now
separated and began to run frantically in all directions. The party of
hunters, of whom there were about twenty-five, also split up into little
groups, and each party chased a buffalo. One of the animals came towards
the boys.
"Get out of his way," yelled John to his brother, "and let him pass
between us. Then fire as he goes."
The great lumbering beast came nearer and nearer, and as they watched,
ready to spring away in case he should charge them, they noticed that he
was being followed far off by an Indian.
"Now shoot," shouted John, as the quarry rushed by. Both rifles rang
out, but the buffalo passed on without showing a sign of being hit.
Immediately Ben's horse bolted with him, but Baldy stood his ground till
his rider urged him after the fleeing game. John held his rifle ready to
make a safe shot when opportunity offered. The horse was now gaining
rapidly, but hearing the thump of hoofs behind him and then an Indian
yelling, he turned his head and saw that Big Hawk, a young brave, was
shouting something. He could not hear what it was, however, and paid no
attention.
The race continued, and John's whole thought was to get in a good shot.
_Zip_! it was the unmistakable sound of a bullet, and as the boy turned
to see from whence it came, _zip_! another bullet went humming by: the
Indian was firing from behind, and the shots were coming unpleasantly
close. John drew Baldy to one side just in time to get out of the
pathway of another leaden pellet.
This last shot caught the buffalo in the leg, and he lunged forward on
his massive head. Big Hawk then rode up and riddled him with bullets.
John was angry clear through.
"The coward," he muttered. "Might have hit me--'twasn't his fault he
didn't either. Anybody could do up a buffalo from behind. 'Fraid I'd get
him, I guess. See that?" He added as Ben came up.
Ben was indignant too, and both boys went up to where the young buck was
skinning the scarcely dead beast, determined to have their share. The
Indian protested against sharing the game, but Wolf Voice happened to
come up at this moment, and, with the authority of a chief, soon settled
the dispute by giving the boys a fine hind quarter. This they lashed
securely with a lariat on Ben's horse. Then both rode off triumphantly
on Baldy.
CHAPTER VIII.
A CLOSE FINISH.
"Boys, you'll have to go and hunt those spare mules to-morrow; they
haven't been seen for a week." Thus Mr. Worth greeted the boys as they
came shuffling in after a long day of mingled work and play one evening
not long after the buffalo hunt.
The following morning the youngsters mounted their horses, after
completing their early chores, and started out. "Where shall we go?"
asked Ben.
"Let's look among the Indians' ponies; those mules are always following
their cayuses around." The plan was no sooner made than executed. They
trotted along the edge of the river for several miles, the crisp morning
air acting like a tonic on horse and rider. Baldy was too old and
dignified to be foolish, but his springy stride, wide-awake look, and
quick response to each word of urging betokened his good condition and
enjoyment. Ben's horse, a little bunchy cow pony with an occasional
wicked streak in him, danced about as if he were worked by electricity
and the current was being turned on and off.
The ford reached, the ponies waded in till the boys had to cross their
legs in front of the saddles to keep from getting wet.
On the other side they found a bunch of a couple of hundred horses, and
as they drew near the herders came charging down on them. They feared
horse thieves, but John explained matters, and after a long
sign-language talk learned that there were six of the long-eared
runaways tied at the camp. They had been put there for safe keeping,
since they had been killing colts and were in danger of being roughly
used by the horses in consequence. A grown "pony," though generally
smaller, will drive out a mule in short order, and these plucky little
animals are never afraid to tackle their vicious antagonists.
The boys went back on the opposite side of the river from which they had
come until the camp was reached.
They found the Indian village all agog with excitement, and for a time
could not get any of the braves to answer their inquiries about the
missing mules. A horse race was to be held, and the usually stoical
bucks could for the time being think of nothing else.
The whereabouts of the missing animals was learned before long, however,
and an Indian went with them to see that they really belonged to the
Worth outfit. On their way they had to pass straight through the village
of several hundred tepees, and many were the greetings of "How!" that
were shouted to them.
On the outskirts of the camp many braves were standing around, making
bets, grooming their horses, and comparing notes. Little redskins darted
everywhere in and out between their elders' legs and shouted shrilly to
each other. The boys found it hard to go on to attend to their errand,
and though neither said anything for a while, they looked appealingly at
each other. "If we find the mules belong to us," said John, finally, in
answer to Ben's questioning look, "we'll take 'em part way back, tie
'em, and then come here and see the races." So they went on reluctantly,
leaving the gesticulating, grunting crowd behind them.
The captive animals were, as they hoped, the ones they had been seeking,
and if the guide had any doubts of their ownership the big W branded on
the shoulder of each beast soon dispelled them. "Lucky there's a fort
near by," said John. "We'd never have seen those critters again if
there hadn't been." The mules were driven back to a point convenient of
access on the trip back to the mine and tied securely. Then both boys
rushed over to the course as fast as their ponies could go.
Nothing had changed; the men still talked excitedly, and on either side
of the level space where the horses were to run lay little heaps of
personal belongings that had been bet on this or that horse--saddles,
blankets, gay bead-embroidered moccasins, and belts, rifles, and
cartridges.
As the boys drew near, old Wolf Voice started toward them with greater
speed than befitted a chief of his dignity and years.
"You got white-faced horse?" he shouted as he came near. "You run race?
Me bet you now, me beat you." The grave old buck was almost childish at
the prospect of racing a running horse.
Before answering, John looked over the horses that were to compete, and
then consulted with his brother. "What do you think?" said he. "Wolf
Voice is crazy for a race, and I think Baldy can beat anything here."
"But we haven't any money," said Ben.
"Me bet you pony, you bet um pony," said the Indian, coming up at this
instant and speaking as if in answer to Ben's remark.
John would not put up Baldy as a stake for anything in the world, but he
took off his saddle. "I'll bet saddle against your ponies," he said,
pointing to two horses a boy was leading forward. The old brave demanded
more, so John added bridle and silver-mounted bit to the pile; still he
was not satisfied, but John refused to give anything more. Wolf Voice
haggled and demanded larger stakes on the boy's part and finally pointed
to his spurs; these were unbuckled and thrown on the ground, and at last
the bargain was completed.
At this juncture Big Hawk joined the group. He was eager to bet against
Baldy, but all John's possessions were already pledged. It was a trying
situation for the boy, for he wanted to get even with him, and he felt
sure that his horse would win. A happy thought struck him.
"Say, Ben," he called out. "Lend me your saddle to put up against Big
Hawk's pony. I haven't got anything left." The younger boy was also
eager to pay back the young brave for his work at the buffalo hunt, so
he complied with this request unhesitatingly.
The wagers arranged, John looked to his horse. Baldy was now without
saddle or bridle, but his owner speedily made a _hackamore_ or halter
out of a piece of rope and climbed on his back; he had decided to ride
bare-back.
A number of braves were clearing the course for the racers, who had
already lined up at the starting point, but old Wolf Voice rushed down
and asked them to wait a minute for the new entry. In the meantime John
was trotting up and down, warming up his mount. In a few minutes Baldy
was in his place with the others. The horses all knew what was to be
done, but Baldy did not become excited and tire himself as did some of
the others.
They all lined up a hundred feet from the starting place. The course,
which was merely a level, grassy place, stretched out invitingly before
them; the Indian spectators formed the boundaries on either side, their
usually impassive, dark-red faces working with excitement. At a word
from the starter the horses went forward at a trot, then changed to a
lope, and were breaking into a run when, a few yards from the scratch,
the boy riding Wolf Voice's bay shot out of the line and ahead. Of
course they had to be called back, and the boy was sharply reprimanded
for spoiling the start.
Then again the horses started and came down to the scratch steadily. At
the starter's yell of approval, they sprang ahead with a dash.
After the jolting scramble of the start, John began to plan his race. He
pulled his horse out of the bunch and ran on the outside. Baldy and he
were about the middle of the string as the fast ones led away. The
little bay, which was the old chief's pride, led, running beautifully;
at his heels was a big gray, fully holding his own. The distance of half
a mile was more than half covered and both bay and gray were ahead of
Baldy, who was third and well in advance of the bunch. The crowd was
yelling wildly, each man shouting encouragement to his favorite in a way
that would make an Eastern baseball "rooter" turn pale with envy.
John lay down closer upon his horse's neck and chirped gently in his
ear. There was a perfect understanding between them, and the old steed
stretched out his neck a little more, laid his ears hard against the
side of his head, and set out to overhaul the leaders, now running nose
and nose. Baldy's long stride told, and he gained steadily, but the race
was not yet over. If he could get abreast of the two leaders John knew
that he could win out on a twenty-foot spurt if need be--he had done it
before.
It was but fifty yards from the finish. The two Indian ponies were
tiring, but they kept up the pace gamely. The crowd was yelling
insanely, uttering threats, encouragements, entreaties in the Indian
dialect, which neither John nor Baldy understood; but just at the
critical moment a clear, shrill voice rose above the din: "Now, Baldy,
hit it up! Get a move on, John!"
Horse and rider braced. John set his lips tighter: they were gaining,
gaining perceptibly each second. The two leaders were whipping their
ponies spasmodically, but John and Baldy kept their heads. Now Baldy's
nose was on a line with the gray's hind quarter, now even with his
shoulder, and now all three horses were running as if harnessed in one
team. And still he gained. John was becoming excited and raised his
quirt. "Come, Baldy, do it!" he cried, and at the same moment brought
down the lash on him. The game old horse responded magnificently. A few
great jumps and they gained three-quarters of a length. Another instant
and they dashed past the finish line. Baldy had won!
John slipped from his back and patted his nose affectionately. "Good
work, old chap. I knew you could leave that lot of cayuses behind."
"Hurrah for you, John!" cried Ben as the victors drew near. "Baldy,
you're a trump, sure enough."
The boys were soon the centre of a circle of red faces, excited,
threatening, joyful, or merely interested, according to their bets. All
were anxious to race again, but John refused. Realizing that he and Ben
would be expected home, he broke through the ring, put his saddle and
bridle on one of the horses he had won from Wolf Voice, mounted, and
started off, leading the other two and Baldy. Ben managed as best he
could with the mules, and so they returned to the mine, the richer by
three ponies, several trinkets, moccasins, etc. It was not till a good
deal later in life that the boys learned how much better worth while it
is to race merely for the sake of the sport itself, and what a
surprising amount of trouble a man can bring on himself and other people
by forming a habit of betting. At present they unthinkingly followed the
examples of the rough men around them.
In the year and a half that was spent at this mine on the Yellowstone
many opportunities were offered for Baldy to show his speed, but the
redskins had learned caution and were never again so reckless as on this
memorable occasion.
The friendly feeling between the red and the white boys grew as time
went on, and many excursions were taken in company. The Indians told
John and Ben things about birds and beasts of which they never dreamed,
and showed them games that were a constant delight. They made a kind of
combination spear and skate from the curved rib of a buffalo to the end
of which were fastened three feathers; the highly polished convex
surface offered little resistance to the ice, so the whole could be
thrown a long distance on the glassy surface. The Worth boys grew to be
very expert throwers of this queer bone skate, and many were the
exciting matches they participated in.
Our boys in turn taught their coppery friends some civilized games.
Trials of strength and skill were frequent, and in most of them the
honors were about even. While the red boys could give points on the art
of wrestling, and never lost an opportunity to show their superiority,
the Worth youngsters got even by initiating them in the "noble art of
self-defence." John put in practice the points given him by Tom Malloy,
much to the discomfiture of the Indian boys and the corresponding
satisfaction of his teacher and the men of the mining camp.
The new sport did not become popular, however, in the redskins' camp;
John was too successful--his opponent was invariably worsted.
And so the days passed, with more work and less play, perhaps, than most
boys are accustomed to. Many pleasant evenings, after the day's work
was done, were spent by the men telling yarns. John and Ben slipped out
often, joined the group, and listened eagerly to the tales that were
told. It was on one of these nights that Charley Green told a tale that
entirely eclipsed Munchausen; a tale that would never have occurred to a
Westerner.
"You know Big Hawk?" he began, looking at the men around him and then
out of the corner of his eye at John. "Well, Big Hawk has seen the boys,
and especially John, box, and made up his mind that he could do
something in that line himself--at least that is my idea of his method
of reasoning." He interrupted himself to explain: "He challenged John
something in this fashion, 'You heap big fighter,' he said, 'me show
you.'"
The men in the circle began to grin; they were beginning to take in the
joke. John and his brother gazed in amazement; all this was new to them.
"Though he is a pretty big chap," Green continued, "the kid didn't seem
to be scared; he knew how to put up his hands and the big red duffer was
entirely ignorant of fistic tactics. Anyhow the boy called the bluff by
responding, 'Well, I don't know, I reckon I can do you up.' Ben was sent
for the gloves, those primitive, deerskin-stuffed-with-grass affairs. A
space was cleared on the dry grassy river bottom, and the spectators
marked the boundaries. The spectators were mostly red," added Green.
"Produce a spectator," shouted a listener.
"Proof, proof, we want proof of this."
"Never mind him," exclaimed another; "go on, Charley."
"I'm not making affidavits. I'm simply telling a story," Charley
explained. "Big Hawk, knowing it to be a kind of battle, had arrayed
himself in full war regalia, which consisted chiefly of a big, feathered
bonnet and a decorative effect in yellow, red, and green paint."
The group of interested listeners chuckled, but offered no remarks or
objections. John and Ben appeared to be dazed.
"Tom Malloy was the referee, and I acted as John's second. Wolf Voice
did the same service for Big Hawk.
"When the two stepped into the ring," Green continued, "the tall,
paint-decorated, feather-tufted Indian and the short, pink-skinned boy,
a smile appeared on the usually grave-faced red men. I said to myself,
Is this a Punch and Judy show or a scene from the Inferno come to the
surface? 'Time!' sang out Tom Malloy, watch in hand."
Green stopped to take breath, then continued:
"The two stepped to the centre, and the red man decided to settle
matters at once. A strong right-arm jab followed. John dodged, and the
force of the blow nearly jerked the Indian off his feet, and at the same
time pulled the war bonnet over his eyes. The boy took advantage of this
and thumped Big Hawk on the chest. The Indian cleared his eyes and came
at him like a wounded buffalo, head down, hands going like flails;
avoiding them, John hit out for the nose and landed square on his beak.
The buck tripped and fell on his back and the blood began to flow freely
from the bruised member, mingling with the yellow and green paint,
forming a very weird design. It was enough, Big Hawk was satisfied and
hastened to get off the gloves and bathe his nose at the river's edge."
From time to time during the recital of this tale Green glanced at the
boys to see the effect of his absurd story. That they were greatly
amused was evident. Cries of "Come off!" "What are you giving us?" and
the like followed the conclusion, and Charley Green subsided,
congratulating himself on his vivid imagination.
The feeling between the two camps, or rather the younger members of
them, was not always friendly, and the boys were glad when their father
came back after opening a new mine, told them that he had bought a sheep
ranch, and asked them if they wanted to go to work on it. The brothers
accepted eagerly, for they were possessed with the restless spirit of
the Westerner and were anxious for new scenes and new experiences.
Much had transpired during the long stay at the Yellowstone mine. The
railroad, with its busy construction gang and its noisy, short-breathed
engine, had reached and passed the little camp and had left behind its
steel trail. The tracks were not used for regular traffic as yet, but
the little dinky engine went by frequently, dragging flat cars loaded
with rails, ties, and other construction material. The boys became great
friends of the engineer, and he allowed them to ride with him in the cab
of the locomotive occasionally.
[Illustration: War-dance postures.]
It was with real regret, therefore, that one morning, as the iron horse
stood near the mine, hissing and grunting in impatience to be off, the
boys climbed up the step and into the cab to bid their friend Mr.
Jackson good-by.
"What! going to pull up stakes?" he inquired. "I've got three boys about
your size back in the East at school, where you ought to be," he added.
"Well," John replied, "mother has talked about school, but father says
he's going to teach us to work first."
"Father's great on work," interposed Ben.
In answer to Mr. Jackson's inquiry, John said that they were to start in
a day or two and would go alone, driving a buckboard; and that though
they did not know the road the horses had been over it, so with that aid
and the description given they would be able to find the way.
"Well, so long, boys," said the kindly engineer, after they had shaken
hands and thanked him for the many engine rides, "I shall miss you."
"Same here; so long!" called Ben and John in chorus.
The little engine began to cough, the steam puffed and hissed, and in a
few minutes it was out of sight around the turn.
[Illustration: A SHEPHERD ... ALONE WITH HIS FLOCKS. (_Page 151._)]
A day or two later the boys climbed into the buckboard, and, after
bidding a matter-of-fact farewell to all, started off: on a journey to a
place neither of them had been to before, over a road that was entirely
unfamiliar to both.
With their father's last instructions ringing in their ears, they set
out at a good pace.
The hundred-and-fifty-mile drive lasted five long wearisome days. Day
after day they travelled, sitting still on the bouncing, rattling
buckboard. The white-topped wagons that came into view occasionally were
hailed with relief, for they somewhat broke the monotony of the journey;
a word or two with these drivers and a question as to the location of
the best grass, wood, and water--camp necessaries--was all that passed,
but even that was a comfort after the desolation and loneliness through
which they had been passing.
On the fourth day the Big Horn River came into view and was crossed in
safety. The appearance of the country changed, and the boys for the
first time saw real mountains. Living, as they had been, on the flat
prairies, their surprise was as great as their interest and delight at
these massive hills uprearing themselves against the sky. The day
following they drove up to the door of the ranch house and were received
cordially by Abe Miller, the foreman in charge. In obedience to their
father's command they delivered a letter of instructions, and while Abe
was painfully studying this out, his hardened forefinger pointing to
each word as he went along, the boys had ample time to observe him as
well as their new surroundings. They saw that he was short and rather
fat and blessed with the face that is apt to go with that build: it was
decidedly cheerful, for the corners of his mouth turned up; even now
there was a half smile on his lips, though his brow bore a perplexed
frown from his literary struggle. The ranch buildings, which consisted
of half a dozen rough sheds and as many more corrals, beside the ranch
house or log shack, lay in a valley. On one side rose a high range of
mountains, wooded to the summit; on the other, a long, rolling,
grass-covered plain.
"I don't see any sheep," said John, after scanning; the country in every
direction.
Abe looked up, but held his stubby forefinger pressed firmly on the last
word he was deciphering, as if to make sure of its safety.
"Oh, they're twenty-five miles down the creek now," he answered. "We
only keep them here in the winter. We'll go there to-morrow; it's too
late now."
By the time the ranchman had finished the letter the sun was nearing the
mountain crest and the boys' appetites assured them it was time to eat.
In the shack a low fire was burning, which blazed cheerfully when John
added an armful of dry twigs and brush. While the boy was mending the
fire, Abe went to one corner of the cabin and from a tall pole which
stood there let down part of a sheep's quarter.
"Why do you keep it up there?" asked Ben, who now noticed it for the
first time.
"No flies up there," explained Abe. "Meat keeps in this climate till it
dries up if the flies don't get at it."
The boys went out and sat on the door-step to wait till the meal was
cooked, for though they were more tired than they realized, they had the
greatest curiosity to see everything connected with this new home.
After sitting silent a while, their heads resting on the door-jamb,
their eyes on the crest of the mountain where the sun shone with its
last departing glory, John turned toward his brother.
"Those mountains are great. We didn't have--Say, Mr. Miller, what's
this?" he asked excitedly, interrupting himself and pointing, first to
some bullet-holes in the logs and then at a blood stain on the block
below.
CHAPTER IX.
A "BAD MAN'S" END.
"That's where Mexican Jack was killed," answered Abe, coming in the
doorway, frying pan in hand. "He was shot just where you sit. I'll tell
you about it after supper."
John moved away from the spot.
Before long the ranchman called them in, and they enjoyed a supper the
like of which had not fallen to their lot since they left the mine. The
compliment the boys paid Abe's cooking did much to win his heart. Though
they were anxiously waiting to hear the story of the bullet holes and
the spot of blood, Abe continued to talk about gravies, the advantages
of a very hot pan in cooking, and other culinary topics that would have
interested John at another time, for he rather prided himself on his
ability as cook, but which now seemed more than trivial.
The boys lent a hand, and soon the tins were washed and the heavy deal
table cleared. The fire replenished, and Abe's pipe fairly started, all
three drew their stools up to the blaze.
"Well, how about Mexican Jack?" ventured Ben at last, unable to restrain
his curiosity longer.
"Oh, yes, I was going to tell you about that, wasn't I? Well, he was a
hard case," continued the speaker. "Half Mexican, half white man--and
all bad, he was. I made his acquaintance about ten years ago at Boisé
City, and the first thing I heard of him was that he'd just killed a
gambler--gambler was a hard case, so nobody cared much--and Jack
skipped. Shortly after that he went to Denver and bullied the town. Oh,
he was a regular 'bad man.' You know what a 'bad man' is, don't you?"
"Sure," said John. "Tough customer who knows he's tough and takes pride
in it. They're always mighty quick with their guns, and dead shots. One
of 'em shot a man in the arm, near our shack back in Bismarck, and
mother tied it up. It was queer; the bullet went right through and it
looked like a rose where it came out."
"Well," continued Abe, "Jack was a 'bad man,' and he didn't care who
knew it. He had a shooting scrape in Denver and had to jump the town in
pretty lively style. The sheriff's posse got after him, but he killed
two of 'em and got off. After that every sheriff in the country was
looking for him, so he turned outlaw and road agent near Virginia City,
and held up Ben Halliday's stages till the vigilance committee hung some
of his partners and got too hot on his trail. Not a thing more did I
hear of him till he turned up about two years ago with this bunch of
sheep of your father's. He had turned herder and driven 'em all the way
in from Utah." Miller stopped to relight his pipe, for he had forgotten
to keep it going in the interest of his tale. The boys were impatient at
the least delay; the ruddy firelight lit up their faces and showed their
eager interest.
"Your father had bought this ranch and put me in charge just a little
while before Mexican Jack came along; I spotted him at once and he
spotted me, but I didn't let on, for I knew he was all-fired quick with
his gun and I wasn't looking for trouble. Of course he never went to
town: it wasn't healthy for him there; and if he wanted anything he had
to wait till somebody who was going in would get it for him. Even with
such care, though, he knew it wasn't safe for him to stay in one place
very long, so one day in spring he told me he was going to quit and move
on. Don't you boys ever turn 'bad men,'" said Abe, with a laugh; "it
don't pay. Brave as that poor chap was, he was fairly afraid of his
shadow when he got to thinking of sheriffs' posses. One man isn't much
good against the law, even out here. Well," he went on, "I went to town
to get another man--it's thirty miles, so I stayed over night. Charley
Boyd, who runs a liquor joint there, told me a young feller, an
Englishman, he thought, had been in there several times asking about
sheep. Charley said there might be some business in it, so I dropped in
later.
"Boyd went up to a young chap who was sitting watching a faro game.
'Here's your man, Mr. Simmons,' said he. The stranger wanted to know all
about the different bunches of sheep near there, so I told him and
talked a good deal about one thing or another having to do with them. I
remember I told him I was looking for a herder to take the place of a
Mexican that was going to quit. Soon after that he left. I could not
quite make him out, but it was plain enough he wasn't buying."
"What's all this got to do with Mexican Jack?" inquired Ben, who didn't
see the drift of the narrative.
"If you wait a minute, I'll tell you." Abe was vexed at the thoughtless
interruption, and Ben subsided, realizing that he had been rather
foolish. "In the morning I packed my stuff on the led horse, mounted my
own cayuse, and started out. I had just topped the rise near the shack
when a bullet went by with a hum, and then another and another, so I
chased back for cover to the other side. I dismounted, crawled up to the
top, and looked over. There at the door sat Mexican Jack, six-shooter in
hand. I couldn't understand why in the world he should shoot at me, so I
rode over to look up Billy, the other herder, and find out what was up.
He hadn't been to the shack since morning and knew nothing about it, so
he left the sheep and we went down the coulie, which runs just below
here, you know, till we got behind that clump of brush--perhaps you saw
it. We peeked through pretty cautious, I can tell you. The Mexican was
still there, but his body was all hunched up; he seemed drunk or asleep,
for his six-shooter lay on the ground by his side.
"We covered him with our guns, for he was chained lightning with his
shooting irons, and then yelled at him. He didn't answer or move an
inch. We jumped out then, still keeping him covered, and walked slowly
up, ready to riddle him if he should make a move with that deadly pistol
hand of his. Once he quivered a bit and his right hand stirred toward
his gun. I almost plunked him then, I was so nervous, but there was no
other sign of wakefulness or life. We decided he must have gotten hold
of some liquor somewhere, but when we got within about fifty feet of him
Billy noticed a pool of blood at his side. Then we rushed forward--guns
still ready, however--and just as we reached the steps he lurched
forward and fell full on his face--dead!
"A couple of bullets had gone clean through him. We found out when we
turned his body over to the authorities in town that Simmons, the young
Englishman I had met, had come over to America a year before expressly
to kill Mexican Jack, who had shot his brother in some quarrel. I had
supplied the missing link of information, and he had gone early in the
morning to our shack, where he had shot the Mexican twice. Jack
evidently thought I had given him away purposely and tried to settle
me."
"My! what a fiend," said John. "But what became of Simmons?"
"Oh, he went back to town and gave himself up, was tried, and acquitted;
for no jury out here would convict such a man for shooting a bad lot
like Mexican Jack."
"I should think you'd be glad to get rid of him," exclaimed both boys
in chorus. "Weren't you afraid to have him round so long?"
"Oh, no; he wouldn't trouble me, I guess, as long as I let him alone; he
was a blamed good herder, and it was worth while to keep on the right
side of him. Now, you boys want to tumble in, for we'll be going out
right early in the morning to the range."
The twenty-five-mile trip next day to the range where the sheep were
grazing was made without incident, but the country was all new to the
boys and they plied their guide with questions. They learned that Abe
Miller was to stay with them on the range and teach them their duties,
another man taking charge at the ranch house during his absence.
It was expected that Mr. and Mrs. Worth would move to the new mine
(about fifteen miles from the ranch house) in a couple of months.
Their education as herders completed, the boys would be given sole
charge of a large bunch of several thousand sheep. A kind of shed, open
in front and built of round, chinked logs, entirely lacking in comforts
of every kind, was to be their home. Polly, Dick, and Pete, the three
sheep dogs, and the great flock of woolly animals would then be their
only companions.
Abe initiated them at once into the routine of their new occupation and
introduced them to "Polly" and her two sons, Dick and Pete, the
ever-vigilant, intelligent dogs who were to be their capable
assistants.
[Illustration: MANY LAMBS IN THE FLOCK. (_Page 149._)]
It was hardly the work that an enterprising, wide-awake, active person,
young or old, would choose. Untiring vigilance was the one thing
necessary. Watchfulness never ceasing, day and night, rain and shine,
was the chief occupation of the sheep herder. Polly, the dog, was a much
better herder than her young masters at first, and Dick and Pete were
not far behind. They moved the "bunch" to fresh feeding grounds at the
command, and fully understood the wig-wag code of the plains. When
driving at a distance from camp Polly would trot to a hill top and watch
for the boys' signal: if John waved horizontally she would drive them
farther, Dick and Pete assisting; when the bunch had been driven far
enough John's hat would be flapped up and down, and the dogs, with
almost human intelligence, would at once stop their charges.
The attacks of coyotes, wolves, and, more rarely, mountain lions were
the greatest danger to the sheep that the young shepherds had to guard
against. Some of these four-footed enemies were almost always prowling
about, looking hungrily for a chance at a stray sheep or lamb. A coyote
or wolf among an unprotected flock will destroy a surprising number of
sheep in a few minutes, seemingly for the pure love of killing, so there
was good reason for the sharpest kind of lookout.
After the novelty of the life wore off, the boys began to wish
themselves back at the mine. For weeks at a time they did not see
another human being. Each day was like every other day; in the morning
the rope corral enclosing the flock was let down, and the sheep were
driven by the dogs to a place where the feed was good; then the boys
mounted their horses and followed to the grazing ground. During the two
mid hours of the day the animals rested, lying down quietly, and the
brothers would take advantage of this time to get in as much sport as
the spot afforded. Rifles were always slung on the saddle, and the
slinking coyotes gave plenty of opportunity to show good marksmanship.
Occasionally the curiously marked antelope appeared, looking, as Charley
Green once said, "as if some one had started to paint the whole lot tan
but had got tired of the job and left patches of white at odd places";
then the young hunters would set out, and in the excitement of a hunt
forget for a time the monotony of the life. Seldom was it safe for both
to go at once; only at noon, when the sheep were lying down in open,
level country, could the dogs be left wholly in charge.
Towards evening the bunch must be corraled for the night--a difficult
task if there are many lambs in the flock. The boys found, often to
their disgust, that a lamb can run like a deer when it gets thoroughly
frightened. It was shortly after Abe had left them that, in accordance
with his teaching, they began to "round up" the flock preparatory to
stretching the rope corral. Ben was on one side with Polly and Dick,
John on the other with Pete; all was going well, and John and Pete,
neither very experienced in the business in hand, began to feel the
pride that goeth before a fall. Suddenly the sheep fifty yards from
where John stood began to scatter. Pete was sent forthwith to force them
back, and while he was busy there a lamb, long and clumsy of leg,
apparently not strong enough to stand alone, started out on a voyage of
discovery not ten yards from the boy. It would not do to let it stray
far, for a coyote would make short work of it, so John sped off in
pursuit.
As he drew near the little woolly thing it increased its speed, running
as you would imagine a rickety table would run, but it kept going faster
and faster. John, who unfortunately was on foot, found to his
mortification that he could not overtake it. It looked as if he would
have to give up the chase. At last, however, he tried gradually turning
to one side and heading it back to the bunch; even then it might have
got away if Polly, taking in the situation, had not flown to the rescue.
John came back panting, hot, and tired, only to find Ben sitting calmly
in his saddle with a broad grin on his countenance. Even the dogs seemed
to be laughing, their open mouths and lolling tongues giving their faces
a look of keen enjoyment over his discomfiture.
Even after the flock was safely corralled it required almost as much
watching as if in the open. The boys usually took turns, each watching
half the night. A fire was built on one side of the enclosure, and the
watcher lay on the other. The sheep, probably the most helpless animals
one could find, lay right up against each other, their closely packed
bodies looking at night like a patch of snow.
As the young herder fought with himself to keep awake, the howl of a
coyote often broke the stillness; then he must start up, gun in hand,
and make a round of the flock. From time to time he replenished the fire
and made a careful scrutiny of the country round in search of the
lurking enemies of his charges. Till he woke his brother about midnight
there was hardly a minute's rest. Then Ben took up the vigil, while
John slept till daylight; and so began another weary day exactly like
the preceding one.
While in summer sheep are docile and amiable, though never so
interesting as are cattle, horses, or mules, in winter they become
stupid, intractable, and aggravating to the herder. It was in the winter
that the boys' greatest hardships were encountered, for they found it
necessary more than once literally to carry some of the flock through
snow drifts to the ranch. They would not be driven or led, but when a
trail had been made, and a number carried and forced along it, the
remainder would pluck up courage to follow through the bank of snow.
The boys spent all one summer and winter with the sheep. From time to
time Mr. Worth, who had moved his entire outfit over to the new mine,
came out to the range to inspect the animals; and towards the end of the
year the boys each time besought their father to let them go back with
him. For the first time they realized the meaning of an expression they
had often heard: "as crazy as a sheep herder." The shepherd's life in
the far West is as uninteresting, ambitionless, and lonely an existence
as falls to the lot of man. For long periods of time a shepherd is so
entirely alone with his flock and his dogs that the experience not
infrequently costs him his reason. It was a terribly lonely life for
youngsters such as they; though each was company for the other, they
both longed to hear the home sounds and see the familiar faces. Mr.
Worth, however, would not consent to their return till the year was up.
He felt that the discipline was good for them, and besides he was never
willing to have them let go of anything without finishing it.
The new mine was the most important and largest that had been opened. It
was situated on the line of the railroad that had just been constructed,
and was of a more permanent character than the preceding ones. Many of
the miners brought their wives and families with them, so that they
formed quite a settlement. Occasionally the miners' sons would ride out
to visit the Worth boys, who were delighted to see them, though there
was little in common between them. The miners were Easterners, as a
rule, and knew nothing of horsemanship, hunting, or plains-craft; but
they were boys and were gladly received as such. They regaled John and
Ben with accounts of the happenings at the mine, but while they listened
eagerly, this only added to their impatience to return and made them
more discontented with their present life.
When the snow began to melt and the grass to grow green again, the
brothers occupied most of their time in thinking what they would do when
they got back to civilization, for the time of their release was drawing
near.
"I'd go crazy if I had to stay here with these woolly idiots another
year," said John one day.
"Yes," returned Ben, "it's about as tame as anything could be. But what
are we going to do when we get back? You can bet your bottom dollar
father won't let us sit round and enjoy the view."
"I suppose we'll have to get to work at something." John stroked Polly's
head reflectively as he spoke, and the good dog, undemonstrative always,
showed her pleasure only by the slow wagging of her bushy tail.
"But what?" It was Ben who spoke. "I'll be switched if I want to go to
coal mining, and I guess you don't care about it either."
"That's right," replied John, laconically. "I've had enough of mining to
last me a lifetime." He shivered a little at the remembrance of his
experience.
For a time both were silent; each was trying to think of something he
might turn his hand to that would suit his father and at the same time
please himself. It was not an altogether cheerful prospect that lay
before them. They would soon change the solitude for their bustling,
busy home. It was home, and that was good to think of. Yet it was a home
where a boy's love of fun and his healthy animal spirits were not
considered: his capacity for work was what counted. A home where
uncongenial, hard labor awaited them unless they could think of some
other occupation that would satisfy their stern, just, absolutely honest
but unyielding father.
"Well?" said Ben at last.
"Well!" returned John in much the same tone, "there is one thing we
might do--perhaps."
"Well?" said Ben again, eagerly.
"You remember when young Watson was over here the other night," John
began. "He said that a mail route was to be run from Ragged Edge Camp to
the railroad, through the pass in the mountain----"
"Yes, and he had the job. That shuts us out, doesn't it?"
"Wait a minute!" exclaimed John, impatiently. "He's a tenderfoot, and
he'll never in the world be able to make that trip on time, in
winter--he'll never be able to make it at all. You'll see that after he
has been late a few times we'll have a chance. Then I intend to apply
for the job. See?"
John was the more aggressive, the stronger of the two, both in mind and
body. The younger brother had learned to lean on his more independent
spirit, so it was John who always had the deciding voice when there was
a doubtful plan. Ben's yielding disposition enabled him to get along
more comfortably with every one, and especially with the supreme
authority in the household.
The Worth boys soon learned from their occasional visitors that they
would be expected to show their prowess as boxers and wrestlers on their
arrival in camp, so they determined to practise up. Every day at noon,
when the sheep lay down, the two went at each other, good humoredly but
with seriousness, advising one another when a mistake was made. Every
blow, every trick, that Tom Malloy had taught John they tried till they
knew it perfectly. Every feint, every fall, that the Indians practised
they perfected, till by the time their term with the sheep was up their
bodies were as supple and their muscles as strong as constant exercise
and clean, healthy living in the open air could make them.
At last the new men arrived, the boys turned over the sheep to them, and
promptly saddled up for their ride across the mountains. They were glad
to get away from the ranch, but when they reviewed the passed long
months and realized that they had not flinched, they experienced that
peculiar pleasure that comes from carrying through a hard job.
CHAPTER X.
BATTLE ROYAL.
Mr. Worth had built for himself a plank house with shingled roof--the
first real house the boys had entered since they left Bismarck.
Their father was away when they arrived, to be gone for some weeks, so
the boys had a chance to have some of the fun they had longed for. They
expected to have great sport with the miners' sons, but were keenly
disappointed to find that their tastes were utterly different. The
latter were as a rule Eastern boys, and were versed in civilized
amusements: baseball, marbles, tops, and all the games of skill and
strength dear to the town dwellers. Of all these our boys knew nothing;
their amusements were akin to their work--to ride well and shoot
straight was a matter of business as well as pleasure for them. And so
the Worth boys and those of the camp stood aloof from one another, and
John and Ben were soon almost as unhappy as they had been on the sheep
range.
They still hoped to have an opportunity to show their skill as wrestlers
and fighters in the emphatic way that was the custom in that day and
place, but for a long time the camp boys gave them no provocation. As
time went on, however, the mining boys grew overbearing and insulting
and never lost an opportunity to taunt and aggravate the young
Westerners.
"I'm going to lick that Jake Adams within an inch of his life," said
John, wrathfully, one day to his brother. "He's the worst one of the
lot."
"All right," said Ben. "I'm with you."
Pretty soon an opportunity came, and John challenged Jake to fight. He
accepted at once. A ring was formed on the outskirts of the camp by the
boys and some of the men who guaranteed fair play. The contest that
followed was short, sharp, and decisive. John kept his head and made
every blow tell, while Jake in his anger forgot all he knew and defended
himself so poorly that his opponent soon satisfied him he was the better
man.
After this such contests, generally not quite so earnest, were frequent.
From most of them John came out victorious, and for a time the others
ceased to taunt the Worth boys. But the feeling was far from being as
friendly as it ought to have been between the two factions. Even the
settlement of the arguments in so thorough a manner failed to clear the
air entirely.
[Illustration: MR. WORTH HAD BUILT FOR HIMSELF A NEW HOUSE. (_Page
157._)]
[Illustration: THE SHEEP RANCH HOUSE. (_Page 137._)]
The miners admired pluck and skill, and John had many friends among
them. His father, too, did not disapprove, for he also admired one who
could give and take hard knocks. His approval was never outspoken,
however; on the contrary he made John's bruises the subject of his
chaffing. To John--who, in spite of his apparent indifference, was very
sensitive and craved sympathy--this was almost unbearable.
As John predicted, young Watson failed to get the mails in on time. John
at once offered to undertake the job, and after some questioning the
authorities decided he was capable of accomplishing it. Here was
something he could do that would test his intelligence, his strength,
and his courage. It was work and amusement at the same time, and he
accepted it gladly.
Ragged Edge had sprung up in a gulch fourteen miles from the coal camp.
It was a new camp of the mushroom variety, called suddenly into being by
the discovery of some gold-bearing gravel in the creek there. Deep snows
on the range nearly cut off communication with the outer world for three
months in the year. By following the high, wind-swept ridge, the
mountain could be crossed by a venturesome horseman till winter came on
and the snows grew too deep, when snowshoes must be resorted to. Even
late in the summer snowshoes were necessary to travel over the soft
masses of the snow which always crowned the summit.
When John presented himself as a candidate for mail rider, Burns, the
boss at Ragged Edge, looked at him in good-natured amusement. "Well,
kid, if you think you can do it, go ahead and try. But it means work and
p'raps danger." John told of his snowshoeing experiences in Dakota
modestly but straightforwardly, and satisfied him by his resolute mien
that he had the pluck to do it if any one could.
The boy spent several days in going over the ground, noting the best
line to follow and making sure of his landmarks before the snows should
cover up everything. He found at the top of the pass an old, abandoned
cabin and marked its location in his mind in case of future necessity.
This bit of precaution served him well before the winter was over.
"You had better get a good strong horse," said Mr. Worth, as John was
mounting Baldy--for the trips had already begun. "Baldy's too old.
You'll need a good young horse."
John said nothing for a minute, but patted his steed as if to express
his confidence in him.
"Oh, no, sir. Baldy knows me and I know Baldy, and I think I can get
along better with him than I could with any other horse," he said,
rather anxiously, for he was afraid that his companion would be denied
him. "Besides," he continued, "Baldy can smell a trail through two feet
of snow, and isn't he in good condition? You can't see a rib."
"All right," returned his father. "He's yours, and the job's yours. Go
ahead and work it out the way you think best."
So boy and horse encountered the perils of the mountain pass together,
friends always, but now sole companions.
While there was no sign of snow in the valleys, it was falling steadily
in the mountains. John did not carry out his first plan of tethering
Baldy at the snow line on the mine side of the mountains and covering
the rest of the distance on snowshoes. He found that by following the
bare ridges he could go the whole distance on horseback. His route was
changed almost every day, for the wind formed drifts in different places
and blocked the old way ten feet deep over night. In certain places cuts
in the ridge would become filled with snow, and through this horse and
rider had to flounder till a hard trail had been packed. It was in such
spots that Baldy's cleverness manifested itself; he rarely missed the
narrow, packed path, though it might be buried two feet or more. An
incautious step to one side was sure to cause both horse and rider to
disappear in the soft mass.
"Well, I must say you have done pretty well so far," said Burns one day,
as John dismounted and handed him the packet of mail.
"Yes; haven't missed a trip," he answered rather proudly. "Don't know if
I'd have made such a good record if I hadn't the best snow horse going
though. Been snowshoeing it two weeks ago if it wasn't for Baldy." He
stopped to stroke the animal's nose affectionately. "I vowed this should
be his last trip, it's getting harder and harder; but he's such good
company I hate to give him up."
Next morning, as Burns handed out the return mail, he warned the boy
that bad weather was coming, and suggested that he leave the horse
behind, for he would be more of a hindrance than a help. "Those black
clouds mean that we're in for a big storm," he said, "and I tell you
that you and your horse had better stay here. I can't boss you, kid, but
I advise you not to fool with that storm--it's coming sure and you don't
know what it means up here." In spite of this John decided to go on
Baldy, for he wished to leave him safe at his father's camp.
The hard travelling had begun to tell on the sturdy little horse; his
body was not so round as formerly, nor his step so springy, but he
carried his young rider well for all that and was as knowing and careful
as ever.
John tucked the package of precious letters in his saddle-bag, and after
calling out a good-by to Burns he set out. He had barely reached high
ground when snow began to fall heavily and with it came a blustering,
roaring wind that buffeted the travellers roundly. The horse slackened
his speed, and, by signs that John knew well, advised retreat. The boy
urged him forward, however, saying aloud--for he always felt as if Baldy
could understand everything he told him--"No, old man, if we go back now
you'll have to winter in the Ragged Edge gulch and you'll die sure. We
can make it all right." The good beast seemed to acquiesce in his
master's judgment, for he went along without further hesitation. The
trail now was covered almost knee deep, and the blinding mist and
whirling flakes blotted out nearly all landmarks. They pushed forward,
at one moment right in the teeth of the blast, at the next turning a
sharp corner and running before it, heads down, eyes almost closed, the
rider depending on the keen senses of his steed to find the way.
At length Baldy stopped, and John felt, with a thrill of real alarm,
that he had lost the trail. To go forward seemed impossible, to go back
almost as bad. To and fro they went, in vain efforts to find the way.
Baldy still floundered along, his hoofs covered with gunny sacks to
prevent their sharp edges from cutting through the crust; but his sides
began to heave and his legs to shake under him, for the exertion of
breaking through the drifts from one wind-swept ridge to another was
most exhausting. John could stand it no longer; he slipped off his back
and caught his head in both arms: "Why did I bring you out here?" he
said, in bitter self-reproach. It was evident that if he did not find
shelter soon his old friend would freeze to death.
There was one chance for himself: he was light and might be able to make
his way over the snow to Ragged Edge Camp, perhaps; but what would then
become of his faithful friend? Could he leave him to such a fate after
he had so spent himself for his master's sake? Baldy stood knee deep in
the cruel, treacherous, white snow, his head down, quick, spasmodic
puffs coming from his nostrils, his body steaming, and his flanks all in
a tremble. There was only one chance for the lives of both. John
remembered the abandoned hut at the top of the pass--if they could
possibly reach that, they might be able to weather the storm together.
He determined to try. Fastening Baldy's bridle rein to his fore leg, so
that he could not follow, and giving him an affectionate pat on the
nose, he started off, his teeth set determinedly. A few yards away the
driving snow shut Baldy off from his sight entirely, but a gentle whinny
reached him and brought a lump into his throat.
"That's all right, old boy," he called aloud; "I'm not going to leave
you. I'll be back." He turned in the direction he thought the cabin
should be and fought his way on. The wind seemed like a howling fiend;
it tore at his clothing, blew the particles of snow into his eyes, and
raised such a veil of mist and frost that he could not see ten yards
ahead of him. On the high, bare ridges the blast nearly took him off his
feet and in the hollows the snow banks engulfed him. Still he struggled
on, straining his eyes forward into the gray chaos that con
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